


Speed Dial

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Court, Domestic Violence, Established Johnlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Really I'm sorry, Sherlock loves John so much it makes my teeth hurt, scumbag lawyers, this is horrible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is assaulted on his way home from work, and Sherlock helps him in the aftermath.</p><p>Established Johnlock.</p><p>*Note April 2016: Not abandoned, I'm just slow. I'll finish eventually, I promise.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Speed Dial

**Author's Note:**

> I had originally posted this under a different account (nonnynon91), because I was nervous about how it would be received. I've been surprised, however, as the reception has been welcoming and encouraging. So, here it is, and here I am, admitting that I've written the horrific thing. 
> 
> Thanks again, AO3 readers, for always proving to be more understanding and accepting than the rest of the "real world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a horrible story. Sometimes I write horrible things to deal with the horrible things in reality. That's all this is. 
> 
> This may or may not be getting additional chapters. Subscribe if you want them, and I'll write more. No promises of how often updates will happen, as I go to school full time and have two jobs, but... I do my best to be responsive to my readers. I love you all, dearly.

John had been working for twelve hours straight, had been awake for nineteen, and he could feel the fatigue in his bones. Later, sleep deprivation is what he blames it on. Had he been taking care of himself, rather than running around London at all hours of the night with a mad detective, maybe he would have heard them trailing him as he walked home from the clinic. Later, he knows he's just using that as another excuse to blame himself, he knows that it wasn't his fault, he knows he should listen to the words he's told his own patients in the past- but he can't find a way around it. There are things he could have done differently. And, later, those things are what he thinks about. Those things are easier to stomach than the reality that he had no control. Easier than the reality that he couldn't have stopped them.

He hears the first man just before an arm wraps around his neck, a hand wraps its meaty fingers into his short hair, and he's forced into a kneeling position in an attempt to maintain his open airway. He claws at the man's flexed bicep and elbow, getting in one good punch before he's further restrained. A second man pulls his wrists backwards, making his wounded shoulder scream in agony, and stomps forcefully on the backs of his ankles, grinding his boots into the Achilles' tendons. _Well, so much for running away,_ he thinks bitterly. He feels the hands holding his wrists replaced with a zip-tie, cutting off the circulation to his fingers. For a moment, he thinks he's being kidnapped. _If I was just being mugged, they would have taken my wallet by now and been on their way. Why are they restraining me? He glances around, past the knees of his assailants, and realizes there isn't a getaway vehicle. They've followed me, but from where? How far? They can't very well drag me out into the roadway and hail a cab... they're going to leave me in the alley. Oh. No, no. This is not what it looks like. This can not be what it looks like._

For another moment, he convinces himself that he doesn't know what's happening. He manages to stay calm, trying to assess how strong each man is and what they're armed with and how he might possibly get out of this, until he feels the humid breath in his ear.

"Now, you're not gonna scream, or we're gonna have to shut you up. I don't wanna shut you up. Don't make me," the voice growls in his ear, making his blood run cold and a shiver fight its way down his rigid spine. He feels the gun pressed to his side, and an erection pressed against his back, and suddenly he isn't sure which one he wants to get away from faster. In his head, he thinks of the pair as _erection man_ and _gun man_ , and later, he regrets this, because he can no longer think the word _erection_ or _gun_ without also thinking of these men.

He stops thinking when he feels the man with the erection fumbling with both of their belts, then their buttons, and finally the zip flies. His trousers are tugged roughly down, his pants pulled along with them, bunched just above where his knees are digging into the grime and gravel of the asphalt. He thinks, dimly, that he should shout, but the barrel of the gun that's still pressed to his ribs tells him otherwise. He doesn't want the man with the gun to shut him up.

He's a doctor, he knows his anatomy, and he also knows exactly how to prepare himself for anal sex. He also knows that there will be no preparation for this, and he tries to steal himself for the pain. He tries to remember being shot, and tells himself _it won't be worse than being shot. You have to stay quiet. He's going to shoot you._

He was wrong. It's just as bad as being shot. The pain sears through him like a fire poker, and he knows he's bleeding before it drips down the back of his thighs. His stomach rolls, and it takes all of his concentration not to vomit on the shoes of the man with the gun, who's now holding him upright with a hand on his sternum. The thrusts grow to a ferocious level, and John doesn't realize until later that his forehead was scraping against the brick wall of the building he was kneeling beside. There's blood trickling down the bridge of his nose by the time the man begins to grunt. All he can feel is a firestorm of pain, and he doesn't even know if the man climaxed inside of him or if he just got bored and gave up, but the thrusting has stopped and John closes his eyes trying to regain his breath. The brush of a cool breeze against his backside tells him that the man is gone, and a glance around tells him he's alone in the alley. John lets himself fall hard to his side, rolling over quickly to put his back to the wall.

He's not sure how much time passes before he realizes he hasn't called for help and is still laying in an alley, bleeding, with his pants around his knees. His hands are still zip-tied together, but he manages to grab his trousers by the back belt loop, and shimmies them up closer to his hips. He fights for several minutes to reach into his pocket to get his mobile, silently thanking his forethought to assign some of his contacts to speed dial, since he's going to have to dial behind his back. Once it's in his hand, he presses the button that he hopes to God is either Greg Lestrade or Sherlock, putting it on speaker.

"John? I asked you to hand me a pen hours ago. Shouldn't you be home by now?" _It's Sherlock. Thank God. Christ, what do I even say? Where am I?_

"Sherlock," is all John manages, his voice raw and shaky.

"John?! John, what's happened? Where are you? I'm coming, stay on the phone. I can barely hear you. Where are you?" Sherlock asked again, firing questions rapid-fire. John was scarcely able to keep up with his quick speech, focusing solely on the fact that Sherlock answered his phone for once, and was coming for him.

"Sherlock," John said again, as Sherlock's voice continued to filter through the speaker on his mobile. Sherlock quieted, waiting for John to answer a question that John didn't remember hearing. "Dunno where I am. An alley. Was walking home. Please find me. Please. I dunno where," John heard himself speak, half begging and half terrified, as if he wasn't connected to his body. _Dissociating,_ the doctor reminded himself. _You're dissociating, and probably going into shock._

Sherlock's voice dropped out of the panicked register he'd been using, greatly disturbed by the fearful tone John spoke in. "It's alright, John, love. It's okay. I'm on my way. How badly injured are you? I'd need to get off the phone to call an ambulance. Do you need one?" Sherlock asked, forcing himself to sound calm and soothing, rather than wildly distressed.

"No, no, no, don't hang up, don't hang up, m'fine, we'll take a cab, m'fine," John heard himself say, barely registering anything outside of Sherlock's tinny speaker-phone voice behind him.

"Okay, it's alright. You'll be okay, I'm almost there I think. I'm almost-" Sherlock's voice abruptly cut off as he turned the corner, his eyes falling on John's crumpled form pressed against the brick wall. He took in the scene, noting the blood on the pavement, the placement of John's trousers, and the zip-tie securing his wrists together. Later, he'll see the bruising at the bases of John's ankles where his muscles and tendons were torn, the mark on his ribs from the barrel of the gun, and the deep red scratches on his hips. Later, he'll have trouble keeping the images out of his head as he obsessively checks the deadbolt of their front door and asks John to start carrying his gun even when they're not on cases.

He kneels in front of his doctor, unsure of where it's acceptable to put his hands, and wanting nothing more than the pull John into his arms and hold him tightly. Sherlock slips out of his coat and drapes it over John, covering him from the shoulders down, before moving behind him to cut off the zip-tie and massage circulation back into his hands. John's eyes are glassy, and he's silent until Sherlock gets his hands free and comes back around to look John in the eye. Sherlock reaches out his hand tentatively, leaving it in front of John as an offering of sorts. Close enough for John to take it if he wants to, but far enough away to not be threatening.

"We need to take you to the hospital, John. Right? You need to be seen to. That's quite a bit of blood," Sherlock whispers, his voice slow and soft, as if he were speaking to a frightened child. In response, John reaches out and grasps Sherlock's hand, pulling the detective's arms around him. Sherlock arranges the coat back around John, buttoning it securely down the front, and pulls the doctor close to his chest. John buried his face into Sherlock's pectoral muscle, breathing in the scent of safety and home.

"Not an ambulance. But yeah. Yeah, I need to be seen to," John managed, finding his voice again, slowly.

"Okay, I'm going to call Lestrade. Is that alright? I assume you'd be more comfortable with someone we know than with a random cabby?"

"That's fine. I just want to go home. Take me to the hospital and then take me home..." John trailed off, losing his train of thought mid-sentence.

Sherlock held John tighter, both to assure himself that John was safe, and in an attempt to make John feel safe. Keeping one arm wrapped around his trembling blogger, Sherlock pulled his mobil out of his pocked and dialed Lestrade.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" Lestrade answered worriedly, unaccustomed to Sherlock actually using a phone for anything other than texting.

"I need you to come pick us up. We're in the alley just behind Baker Street. Halfway down, behind a dumpster. Brick building. Hurry please, John's bleeding. He's... he's hurt," Sherlock said swiftly, relaying the information around the lump growing in his throat.

"On my way. Stay on the line with me. What's happened? Didn't know you two were on a case today," Lestrade started, growing more wary of the situation as the seconds ticked by.

"Not a case. He was on his way home from the clinic. Some thugs, I think there were..." Sherlock glanced around quickly, taking the time to truly investigate the scene. What he saw had him swallowing back bile. "Two men. It was two men, mid-thirties, one about 6 feet tall and the other was 5'10. Shoe sizes 12 and 11, respectively. Wearing..." he trailed off again, studying the muddy, drying footprints that John's assailants had left in their wake. "Wearing steel-toed boots. They're construction workers. Probably from the new office building near the clinic. They can collect the DNA at the hospital, open and shut case. Right, Lestrade? With DNA, this isn't going to be a horrible, drawn out circus, is it?" Sherlock rambled, glancing down at John. His doctor rested against his chest, his eyes staring blankly down the street, his breath coming in short, quick puffs.

"DNA? Sherlock, what's happened? He wasn't just mugged, was he? Why aren't you calling an ambulance?"

"You're faster, and he knows you. He needs to be seen to at the hospital, but he's not dying. He doesn't need more strangers poking and prodding at him right now. I don't want to scare him any more. He might be going into shock though," Sherlock answered breathlessly, while he focused his attention back on John's pale form. "John, hey, I need you to breath properly. You're hyperventilating, and not getting enough oxygen. Can you hear me, love? You're safe now, I've got you. Try to listen to me breathing, okay? Breath with me. It's alright now. Greg is coming." John nodded minutely, and made a clear effort to regulate his breathing, although it truly didn't improve very much.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm almost there. What happened to him? What did they do?" Greg asked, dreading the answer he knew was coming. He knew John, as a soldier and as a doctor, and he knew that it would take more than just a simple mugging to send the man into shock.

"Lestrade-" Sherlock started, trying desperately to keep his voice from breaking. He took a deep, steadying breath, before speaking quietly into the phone again. "He was beaten and sexually assaulted. One man, the shorter one I believe, held him at gunpoint, while the other-" Sherlock shook his head, trying futilely to clear the image his mind's deductions were playing in his head. "The other penetrated him from behind. He's bleeding, from there, as well as from where his head was bashed into the brick wall. I don't think he has a concussion. It's just an abrasion, really, the head trauma. Something's off with his legs, I'm not sure what, I don't know, Greg, I don't know what to do, what do I do, Lestrade-" Sherlock's speech was quickly becoming rapid and panicked, and Greg was thankful that he was nearly there.

"Shhh, Sherlock, it's going to be okay, I'm almost there. He's going to be alright. Can you hear the siren?"

"Yes. You're about a block away."

"Good, focus on that. I'm nearly there now. It's alright," Greg said, as he turned the corner into the alley. Luckily, it was large enough for his police cruiser to drive through. He shut off the siren and lights as he turned the corner, not wanting to panic John or Sherlock any further. After exiting the vehicle, he came to crouch near John's form, where he was still huddled against Sherlock's chest and wrapped in the detective's coat. He reached out a hand and slowly touched John's fingertips, speaking softly to him.

"John? It's Greg. Can you answer me?"

"Y- yeah. Greg." John managed, his voice shaky and distant.

"I can touch your hand like this, yeah? That's alright?"

"Yeah," John answered, recovering his voice slightly.

"Okay. Sherlock called me because we need to take you to the hospital. He said you've been assaulted by two men, is that right?"

"Yeah. They-" John took in a sharp breath suddenly, cutting himself off. "There were two."

"Alright, that's fine, I'm not asking any more questions right now. It looks like you've got an abrasion on your head, but do your neck and back feel alright? I don't need to call an ambulance and have you back-boarded, do I?"

"M'back's okay. It's alright. They hurt my legs. I think... maybe I've got some muscle damage. No broken bones. I need, um. It's bleeding. You know," John squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to concentrate. All of his thoughts felt muddy and scattered. "I'll need, an, erm, an exam, testing. You know," he whispered, wishing he could make his voice sound less child-like. Lestrade's fingers curled around John's, while Sherlock tightened his hold. Sherlock made eye contact with Lestrade, silently urging the man to say whatever it was that cops said to people in these situations.

"Alright, mate. We'll get you taken care of. You're safe now, yeah? It's okay. Sherlock and I are gonna help you get in the car and we'll get you to the hospital. I've radioed ahead so they're expecting us," Lestrade said, while motioning for Sherlock to help him lift John from the ground and carry him to the back seat of Lestrade's car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments, but please be kind. I don't tend to post dark things quite *this* dark, so I am very nervous about it.


	2. Like I'm a Crime Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return home to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty seven people are subscribed to this monstrosity!  
> I was shocked. But, thank you, for all of your subscribes and comments and kudos.  
> I'll keep writing for now. You're all lovely.

John's eyes were closed, but he turned his head to Sherlock, who had been sitting next to his bed ever since he'd been wheeled back into his hospital room after surgery. Sherlock moved his thumb in small circles across the back of John's hand, not knowing what to say to make the situation even marginally less stressful.

"Lestrade left while you were back there. Said he didn't think you'd want an audience when you woke up," Sherlock said, speaking in a hushed tone, knowing John was awake but unsure if he was in the mood for talking.

"Yeah. Thank him for me, will you? For driving us?" John answered, his eyes still closed agains the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hospital.

"Already have." _  
_

"Ta."

The minutes ticked by, slowly and quickly at the same time, while John drifted in and out of consciousness. After an hour or two, he had passed the neuro check from the doctor, had all of the paperwork detailing his post-op care and various pamphlets about support groups and counseling, and had made an appointment to make a statement to the police the next day, in the comfort of his own flat. 

Sherlock spent their time in the hospital mentally recording John's injuries, storing evidence in his Mind Palace, and deducing everything possible about the men who had attacked him. Several ligaments, tendons, and muscles in John's ankles were deeply bruised, which would make it difficult for him to walk for the next several days. He had a dark purple bruise blossoming on his ribcage from where the gun had been pressed against his side for the duration of the attack, and several square inches of skin had been abraded from his forehead. There were thick, finger-shaped marks on his hips, wrapping around the top of his iliac crests, and deep mauve thumbprints just above his buttocks, where he had been held. He'd required several stitches in his rectum, which made Sherlock shudder to think about.

Sherlock focused on John's injuries, on the rapist, and on ways he could find the men that did this to John and destroy them. He focused on getting John medical attention, on getting John home, and on keeping him safe. He did not focus on the single, strangled sob that forced it's way out of John's throat as the sexual assault nurse collected swabs and hairs as evidence from John's body, and took photographs of the bruising and wounds. He did not focus on the way his own chest constricted and heart pounded as he held John's hand throughout the entire demeaning ordeal. He did not focus on the small voice in the back of his head, berating him for allowing something like this to happen to the man he loved most in all the world.

It was only when they returned to their flat that it became glaringly obvious that this was going to be a bit more complicated than all of the counseling pamphlets wanted them to believe.

"Help me shower," John had said, monotone, not asking but commanding, the moment they'd returned to the flat.

"Of course, John. But maybe a bath, instead? You're not supposed to be on your feet without the ankle braces very long."

"No," John answered, not sharply, but not necessarily kindly either.  _I am not going to lay in a tub surrounded by the filth that I want to scrub off of my skin, Sherlock._

"John, I really think-"

"You will shut up, and you will help me shower, or you will get the fuck out," John countered, cutting Sherlock off mid-sentence. The expression on his face told Sherlock that the doctor himself was just as surprised by his vulgarity as Sherlock was. John closed his eyes, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. "Christ, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I know. It's fine. We'll get you showered, legs be damned," he offered, giving John a weak smile. John nodded back, the feelings of fatigue and defeat radiating form his slumped posture.

Once in the shower, John leaned against the wall scrubbing his skin madly where he could reach without too much pain, and relying on Sherlock for the rest. By the time he had finished, legs shaking and skin paling as his stamina wore thin, he still felt as if his skin was about to crawl off, which wasn't made better by the way he could tell Sherlock was mentally cataloging each of his injuries.

"Sherlock. Stop that," he said, grabbing his robe from Sherlock's hands and refusing assistance with getting it on.

"Stop what? I'm not leaving you in here alone. Surely you know better than that."

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what? You expect me to help you bathe and dress with my eyes closed?"

"No, I expect you to be able to keep yourself from looking at me like I'm a crime scene."

Sherlock closed his mouth, unsure of what to say to that. John was right of course; looking at him like he was a crime scene was exactly what Sherlock had been doing since he found him in the alley.

"...I'm sorry, John. I just want to find them. I  _have_ to find them."

John sighed. He knew this was going to happen. He was a case now.

" _You_ don't have to do anything. The police will find them. Please, Sherlock. Let them handle this," John said, facing the floor, unwilling to meet Sherlock's eyes. When the detective didn't answer, John looked up, speaking in a whisper and with a voice than sounded as if he was a hair's breadth away from tears, "Please let them handle it. I need you to let it go. Please."

Sherlock swiftly closed the small distance between them, pulling John into his arms and tucking the soldier's head under his chin. He pressed a chaste kiss to John's hairline before answering, "Alright. Alright, I'll let the police handle it."

John's hands fisted in the material of Sherlock's shirt, as if they were both adrift at sea during a hurricane and Sherlock was his life preserver. He pressed his face into Sherlock's neck taking several deep breaths before he felt safe to speak without breaking down completely. His emotions had been coming in waves ever since the attack- he would be completely blank for hours, and then struggling to suppress tears the next. It was a roller coaster he was quickly growing tired of, but there was no end in sight.

"I love you, Sherlock. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do, John. You've told me at least once a day since you first admitted it." John's only response was a short-lived, breathy chuckle that tickled the top of Sherlock's sternum. "I love you too, John Watson. Very much."


	3. This Isn't Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives his statement to the police, and Sherlock and John have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm American, and I have absolutely zero idea about how sexual assault is handled by law enforcement in England. All I know is from my own experience here in the States, but it seems fairly similar, according to Wikipedia. (I know, I know, Wikipedia, much research, so knowledge, wow.)

Giving the statement to the police was less painful than they had expected, but John's demeanor throughout the conversation had Sherlock worried. He was straightforward, detailed, and accurate, which is everything one looks for in a statement, but there was still  _something_  off. To anyone else, John would appear remarkably put-together considering what he had just experienced, but Sherlock could tell by his posture and the way he fiddled with his left hand that something was simmering just below the surface.

 _Boiling is more like it_ , John would have corrected, had he known what Sherlock was thinking. If he felt as if his skin were crawling yesterday, that was nothing compared to what it felt like now, describing the events to a cop he'd only just met, in the light of the mid-morning sun, while sitting at his kitchen table. He alternated between feeling as if he was only recounting a nightmare that his subconscious had invented, and the horrifying realization that he had been  _raped_ and was likely going to have to face one or both of those men in court eventually. His mood oscillated from furious to disgusted to terrified of its own accord, and it was everything he could do to maintain a calm exterior. He knew he couldn't keep it up much longer, and was enormously relieved when the officer finally took his leave, promising to call with any updates on the case.

As soon as the door closed, John lowered his head into his hands, taking in heaving gulps of air as if he had been holding his breath for the past hour. Sherlock quietly pulled up a chair to take a seat beside him, and ran his fingers through John's hair delicately, remembering that the motion had seemed to calm the doctor in the past. 

"You're alright, John. It's over. You don't have to talk about it again, until you're ready. You did remarkably well," Sherlock said, hoping to reassure John with the fact that he made it through a notoriously difficult situation.

"But it's not, is it, Sherlock? This isn't over. If I wasn't pressing charges, it would be over. For me, at least. But they're going to find those bastards and arrest them. I'll have to ID them. I'll have to testify against them, probably, in court. Christ, why am I doing this? Jesus, Sherlock..." John trailed off, struggling to breathe against the panic thrumming through his system.

Sherlock moved closer, slowly wrapping one arm around John's waist and placing a hand over John's fist that was resting on the table. "You're doing it to get them off the streets. To keep them from hurting someone else, or hurting you again. But you don't have to. You can drop the charges, John."

"If I drop the charges, you'll only get Mycroft to find them and deal with them. He'd kill them, or ship them off to some island nobody knows exists."

"Yes, well, I did promise you I wouldn't go after them myself. But you wouldn't need to be involved. It would be quieter. Faster."

"It would also be illegal."

"That's debatable."

"It's not, actually. Circumventing England's judicial system sounds pretty illegal to me, Sherlock."

"Okay, illegal. But discreet."

"I'm not dropping the charges."

"I know. You have faith in law and order to a fault," Sherlock said, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth ever so slightly. 

"I have a feeling we're going to get a taste of exactly how problematic that fault can be..." John said, descending once again into worry. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, before raising his eyes from the table to meet Sherlock's. He sighed, quietly, before a line formed between his wrinkled eyebrows and he broke eye contact, clearly concerned about something else, now.

"What is it?"

"Really, you can't just deduce it from my face?"

"You told me not to look at you like that last night. So I'm not. If you'd rather me start again, by all means-"

"No. Don't," John returned, putting a hand flat against Sherlock's chest as if physically stopping him from proceeding forward. 

"Then tell me, John. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."

"It's just..." John inhaled and exhaled, once, slowly, before finishing his thought. "Sex."

"Sex?" Sherlock asked, as if it had been the furthest topic from his mind. 

"You and I, because, I mean... we're together now. And I know we haven't, yet, but... eventually, I wanted to? But now? I don't know how... what I would...? How I would...? I still want to, but I don't... know. I don't know," John finished, waving his hand around as if he were demonstrating the many directions in which his thoughts were flying all at once. He shook his head again, fiddling with the fingers of his left hand.

"John, that is absolutely the last thing on my mind right now-"

"Oh, it's that bad is it? Christ, Sherlock, I didn't think you'd be one to just up and  _discard_ someone for being  _damaged_ , but I guess it takes all types."

"No! No, John, not at all, that's not what I meant-"

"I don't give a  _damn_ what you  _meant_ , it's what comes out of your mouth sometimes that I can't stand!"

"John, if you would calm down and let me finish my thought-"

"Don't  _fucking_ tell me to  _calm down_ , Sherlock, I will feel however the hell I want to about this, and right now I feel..." and with those words, Sherlock could practically see the fight drain out of John. He wavered slightly in his seat, before slouching and returning his face to rest in his hands as he had done earlier. " _Fuck_ , Sherlock, I don't know what I'm feeling, I don't want to keep yelling at you like this-" he managed before his voice broke. Sherlock returned his arm to John's shoulders, which were noticeably shaking now as he fought to restrain unbidden tears. 

"John, love. Look at me," Sherlock said, quietly, after a few moments of silence.

John raised his head from his hands, slowly wiping his eyes and cheeks with his palms, before Sherlock stopped him. He cupped John's cheeks with his hands, quietly brushing the offending tears away. "John Watson, I love you. I never expected to love anyone, much less for that person to return the sentiment, so this has all been very new to me. I know I can be frustrating, and I am so, so thankful that you are willing to put up with my more... unappealing habits. But this is not something I want you to worry about. If and when you are ready for that- for sex- I would love to participate. But I don't care if it takes a long time, and I don't care if it never happens, because all I really need is you here, with me. I've spent a rather long time not participating in sexual intercourse, far longer than you have in your adult life, I'd venture to say, and I don't subscribe to the belief that my life would be 'incomplete' without it. I will be happy enough, with or without, I promise you. If you want more, we'll deal with that when you're ready. Okay?"

John blinked, sending a few more tears down his face, and almost smiled. He took Sherlock's hands from his face and held them both between his own, in his lap.

"Christ, Sherlock. I don't know how someone who is such a complete and utter cock all the time can be so..."

"Logical?"

"I was going to say 'understanding and loving,' but sure, logical," John said, getting dangerously close to smiling again.

"Well John, we have to be honest with ourselves. Love is a selfish motivator. I love you, and therefore want to spend my life with you, regardless of the terms. I have to eliminate obstacles that would endanger that end goal."

"You know, most people just say 'you have to make compromises for relationships to work.'"

"I don't see it as a compromise if I get to stay with you, John. You're everything I want. Nothing about that is a compromise."

"Really though, when did you become such a romantic?"

"Have you never listened to me play violin? I've always been a romantic, John. Now, let me make some tea and we can watch one of those terrible television programmes you like."

"You don't need to coddle me. I'm not... that bad off."

"I know. But... John, I was so afraid yesterday, after everything that happened, while I was waiting for you to wake up. I'm not used to experiencing fear that strongly," Sherlock answered, speaking fast and quietly, as if he was giving away a classified state secret. "I don't know a lot about comforting other people. But you like tea and you like television, and there's really  _nothing_ I can do to fix any of this, so please, just let me do this. I hate feeling so  _powerless._ " _  
_

John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead, squeezing his hand as he did so. "Thank you, love. I'll meet you in the living room."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments, again. I really love hearing from all of you.


	4. Things Were Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John steadfastly ignore the fact that things are pointedly not fine, until they can't.

Things were going well, or at least, better than either of them thought it would go. John was bruised, and sore, and tired, but really, he insisted, he was  _fine_. Sherlock was furious, and worried, and slowly becoming borderline overprotective, but honestly, he maintained, it was  _perfectly normal._

Things were perfectly normal.

Things were fine.

Really.

At least, they were fine if you didn't count the time John stepped out of the shower, two days after the attack, his skin bright red and rubbed raw, and caught a glimpse of his naked body in the mirror. Even though the condensation on the glass, he could make out the deep purple handprints on his hips that he had forced himself to believe weren't hurting at all, because they _weren't there_ , of course. Nothing had happened; he was  _fine._  Must have caught a stomach bug- that's why he was suddenly hunched over the toilet, vomiting tea and toast from that morning while Sherlock picked the lock on the door. John remembers shouting something at Sherlock, once he had finally managed to get inside the room, but doesn't remember what Sherlock had said in reply, or if he had said anything at all. He remembers his blood running cold at the feeling of Sherlock's hand on his back; he remembers throwing a punch out of instinct. He doesn't know if he met his target or not, but he doesn't want to find out. He doesn't want to face himself. He stopped looking in the mirror, after that. _  
_

Things were fine, if you didn't count times Sherlock got out of bed each night, just to double-check the deadbolt, or to make sure the gun was still in the nightstand, or to lean on the doorframe of John's bedroom to make sure he was really, truly, home and safe and well. Especially if you didn't count the time he was leaning against that same doorframe while his legs slowly gave up and lowered his body to the floor, and he struggled to keep himself silent while he choked down sobs that he didn't quite understand the origin of.

Things were fine, as long as you didn't acknowledge the fact that the times John welcomed Sherlock's touch were slowly dwindling and the times he forcibly shoved the man away from him were growing more and more frequent. They were fine, as long as you didn't keep track of the way John flinched when Sherlock stood behind him, or the way he had broken three mugs just this week because his shaking hands simply wouldn't hold them.

Things were completely, totally fine, until four days had passed and at least one of them was going to have to go to Tesco's. Because, as John likes to put it, "Not all of us can subside on caffeine and nicotine alone."

The majority of the pain from John's injuries was starting to subside, and they both agreed that it would probably be a good idea for both of them to get out of the flat for at least an hour or two, which is what brought them here- to the brick wall John had plastered his back to, breathing shallow and rapidly, pupils blown wide in panic. They'd made it almost two blocks down the street before Sherlock noticed how John's hands had balled into fists in his pockets, and not ten feet more before Sherlock felt John's ice-cold hand clench around his wrist like a vice.

" _Sherlock_ -" he managed, between short gasps of air that weren't held in his lungs nearly long enough for adequate perfusion. "I  _can't_. I can't," he repeated, before quickly backing up to the wall, pulling Sherlock after him by the wrist that he held in a death grip. His eyes darted around, scanning the street for threats, but not relaxing once he found there were none.

"John. Can you tell me what's happening? Are you having a panic attack?" Sherlock asked, having only witnessed John in a state like this while he was under the influence of a drug in Baskerville. John was only able to nod in confirmation, as the color drained from his face and his hold on Sherlock's wrist tightened. 

"Do you want me to take you home, or stay here?"

"H-home. Please," John said, making a concerted effort to lower his respirations to a more reasonable rate. 

"Okay. You're alright John, I've got you. I'm going to wrap my arm around your shoulders and pull you close to my side, alright? And then we're going to walk home. You can lean on me, I'll keep you up, that's it," Sherlock said, as he tugged John securely against the side of his body and turned them towards their flat. "We're close, you can see it right there. Just keep breathing. Keep your feet under you. It's alright," Sherlock continued speaking until they were climbing the stairs back up to their flat.

Once upstairs, in the safety of their own flat, Sherlock closed the door and locked it as John pressed his back against the wall and slid to the floor. Sure the lock was secure, Sherlock slid down next to John, careful not to encroach on his space too much. He let his blogger catch his breath, and once he was moderately sure that John's brain was once again getting enough oxygen, he decided it was safe to speak.

"Would it make it worse for me to touch you right now? Hold your hand?"

"Yes."

"What can I do?"

"I... I don't know," John said, but a beat later added, "Give me your scarf."

Sherlock untied his scarf from his neck, holding it out to John with an open hand. John picked it up with trembling fingers, brought a section to his face, and inhaled deeply.  _Cigarettes and expensive shampoo and aftershave and sweat. Sherlock. Home. Safety._ He stayed there for a few more minutes, letting the familiar scent of Sherlock and Baker Street calm his racing heart. 

"You've been smoking," John said, when he felt safe to speak.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, surprising John by not evading the statement.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure."

"Don't be. You didn't ask for this."

"Neither did you."

They sat in silence for several minutes after that, listening to the echoes of life bustling around outside the walls of their flat, where time seemed to be standing still. 

"Only smoking?" John asked, half hating himself for even asking the question.

"Only smoking, John." Sherlock returned, none of the usual bite in his tone. They were both worn thin by the stress of the past four days, but the relentless tide of anxiety didn't seem to be heading out any time soon. Slowly, John reached his hand out to Sherlock, who grasped it securely, interlacing his and John's fingers.

They stayed on the floor, their backs to the door of the flat, while they watched the afternoon sun filter through the windows in the living room. Sherlock had almost forgotten John was there by the time his tired, thin voice brought him out of his mind palace and back to reality.

"I'm... I'm not okay," he said, the truth of the statement weighing down his shoulders and pressing lines into his face that Sherlock could have sworn were not there a week ago.

"I know," Sherlock answered, because, really, there wasn't anything he could say to make the situation any better.

"Are you? Okay?"

"No. I'm not," the guilt of his admittance sitting heavy in Sherlock's stomach.  _I wasn't the one who was hurt. I wasn't the one who was beaten senseless and raped in the street. But, no, I'm not okay._

"We will be- that's what I always told my patients. 'You may not feel okay now, but you will in time.'"

Sherlock turned to study John at that, searching for the truth in the statement.

"Do you believe that, now, John? That you'll be okay? That  _we_ will?"

"I don't know," he said, pressing his lips together in a grim line, shaking his head.

"If I have to be not okay, I'd rather be not okay  _with_ you, than  _without_ you, for what it's worth."

"Me too, Sherlock," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand tightly and resting his head tentatively on the detective's shoulder. They stayed there, hand in hand, while the sun set on London and the afternoon sounds of rush hour turned into the relative quiet of the city at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely readers, for the comments, encouragement, kudos, subscriptions, and most of all, for reading.
> 
> Every single one of you has a special place in my heart.


	5. We're Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk, and some bonus Johnlock cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe so many people are reading this, and enjoying it.  
> Thank you. You're all wonderful.

"John."

Sherlock's voice brought John back to reality, where it looks like he had been sitting in his chair staring into nothing again, while his tea and toast went cold. He picked up the mug and took a sip of tea,  _yes, definitely too cold, must have been sitting here for a while longer than I realized. Again._ He grimaced at the taste of it, but set it back down on the coffee table rather than taking it back to the kitchen to pour out.

"John?" Sherlock repeated, trying to get his attention.

"Hm?"

"I wasn't going to bring this up, because I thought you might just need some time to process things on your own, but... I'm concerned," Sherlock said, unconsciously biting his lip as he finished. In the week that had passed since their ill-fated outing to Tesco, John hadn't left the flat, or made any calls. He hadn't interacted with anyone besides Sherlock, and he had taken an undetermined amount of leave from the clinic. 

"You're concerned."

"Yes, that's what I just said," Sherlock confirmed, taking a seat in his chair, facing John. "I think you need to talk to someone. Not that I'm Ella's biggest fan, but... someone. I'm sure Mycroft has a whole list of trustworthy counsel-"

"Nobody on any list of Mycroft's is trustworthy, if you ask me," John interjected before Sherlock could continue. 

"Well, in that case. Have you thought about calling Ella?"

"Right, because I am totally capable of leaving the flat for counseling on the other side of London when I can't even walk five blocks to Tesco," John said, the sharp bite in his voice doing little to hide his feelings of defeat from Sherlock.

"That's what this is about? You have one panic attack outside the flat and you diagnose yourself with agoraphobia? John, really, you should know better. That could have been triggered by any number of things. It seems that you're just as likely to have one while inside the flat as you are outside, anyway. It's nearly every day, now."

"You know I've been having panic attacks?" John asked, suddenly feeling an unsettling mix of alarmed and embarrassed. He'd been trying to keep that to himself, at least as much as possible.  _I'm an Army doctor for Christ's sake. I've sewn people back together while bombs exploded outside, and now I can barely get through two days without completely losing control of my emotions._

Sherlock lowered his eyes to examine his hands, which were currently folded in his lap. "It was obvious you were trying to hide it. I was trying to respect your privacy, since, you know, that's a thing you said people value. But I have  _ears,_ John. I could hear you."

"Jesus. I didn't want you to-"

"I know, I know. That's why I didn't say anything. But I can't just  _ignore_ it when you're clearly in so much pain."

"So you want me to talk to  _Ella?_ I don't know what good it would do. Do you know how the session went, when I went to see her after you jumped off of the bloody roof? 'What happened, John?' and 'You need to get it out.' As if  _saying_ you were dead could have made it any more real. I knew you were dead. I know I was raped. I don't see why sitting in Ella's office while she asks stupid quest-"

"Okay, okay, fine. We can both agree that Ella's an idiot. But  _someone_ , John, because this-" Sherlock gestured vaguely around the general vicinity of the room, "is not healthy. There are people who can  _help_."

"I have you to talk to. I don't want to talk to some stranger, Sherlock, I want to put this behind me and go on living my life," John said, shaking his head slightly while he thought,  _not that I know how to put this behind me._ _What does that even mean?_

"John, I'd be happy to talk with you about it. But you haven't been talking to me- you've barely stayed in the same room as me for more than an hour at a time, and I think this might be the longest conversation we've had in almost a week. But, even so, I'm not... qualified, really. I can listen but... I don't know how to help you work through this. I don't know what to  _do_. But I can't watch you sit in here destroying yourself every day." Sherlock got up from the chair abruptly, crossing the room and walking over the coffee table to sit down heavily on the couch.

He closed his eyes and rested his head back, exposing his neck, while his fingers fidgeted with the strings trailing from the seam of his dressing gown sleeve. He'd never really been one to continue to wear a piece of clothing that clearly needed mending, but he couldn't force himself to part with it. Somehow, the string brought him comfort. As he worked it between his fingers, tugging it slightly at times while the seam unraveled centimeter by centimeter, he thought of his own seams, and of those between himself and John.  _We're unraveling, John, both of us. I don't know how to stop it.  
_

Sherlock heard the springs in John's chair creak as the man got up and made his way over to the sofa, sitting down closer to Sherlock than he had in several days. Their thighs were touching, hip to knee, as John delicately pressed the side of his torso and shoulder against Sherlock's as well. Momentarily, Sherlock felt the solid weight of John's head resting on his shoulder, and could feel his breath grazing over his arm, through the dressing gown. They sat quietly, Sherlock reveling in the closeness of John that he hadn't felt in days, and John allowing himself some time to relax after initiating the physical contact. 

"You've been so patient with me. I don't want you to think that's gone unnoticed. I know it's not easy for you. Thank you, Sherlock," John said, softly, unwilling to disturb the few minutes of peace that they had suddenly uncovered amidst the fallout of recent events. 

For a moment, Sherlock thought about denying that fact that he, in fact,  _was_ having difficulty staying patient with the situation. He'd had to forcibly lock himself in his room on more than one occasion, finding the impulse to shout and rave at John and his silence simply too strong to manage. He decided to accept John's statement rather than try to coddle him with false platitudes. "You're welcome. I'm trying."

"I know. I am too. I don't know if I want to see a professional though. I know I should, but... I don't know. Maybe eventually. I'm not ready yet. It's too..."

"Daunting, to think about working through the aftermath of one of the worst experiences of your life with an impersonal stranger that does the same thing for hundreds of other strangers?"

"Um... yes, that exactly. How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed deeply, bobbing John's head up and down with his breath. 

"My parents tried to get me someone to... talk to, after some particularly nasty episodes of bullying at school when I was young. Nothing nearly as serious as this situation but, I suppose, it was a rather... damaging experience. The counselor they found was completely useless, just as I had anticipated. Not that my assumptions helped the situation any, but I like to think self-fulfilling-prophecy didn't have much to do with it."

John looked up at him, surprised at the admission and rare vulnerability Sherlock was displaying. He pressed a short kiss or Sherlock's shoulder before he answered, "I never realized you were bullied when you were young."

Sherlock glanced down at the top of John's head in surprise. "Of course I was bullied when I was young, John. I'm bullied now, and I'm 35. It didn't just spring up out of nowhere. I've always been like this; people have always hated me for it. It's nothing  _new_ , by any means."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Unnecessary. You are, by far, the kindest person in my life. You've nothing to be sorry for," Sherlock answered, before leaning down and kissing the spot of John's head he could reach from this angle, just past his hairline but before the crown. John stilled, feeling comfortable and safe while leaning against the man he loved. He hadn't been this relaxed since the attack.

"There's one thing, that's really been bothering me, the most," John started, before he felt his voice die in his throat.  _Nope. You can't talk about this. Not ready._

"Do you want to tell me what it is?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to press John any further than he was comfortable.

"Yeah, but... I don't, at the same time," John answered, nervously. His hand unconsciously left his leg and grasped Sherlock's hand that had been resting on their thighs. 

"Maybe... you could tell me why you  _don't_ want to tell me, and that might help?" Sherlock ventured, quickly traveling into uncharted territory.  _  
_

"I don't think I want to admit it. It's disgusting."

"Are you talking about the specific thing you don't want to tell me, or about being... raped, in general?" Sherlock said, pausing before saying the word  _rape_ as if he was afraid it might poison the both of them.

"The specific thing, but... yeah, that too. Both." John said, feeling his hand grow clammy and damp in Sherlock's.

"Well, I'm here if you decide you want to say it, whatever it is, and it's not going to make me think you're disgusting. I promise you. It's all fine, John," Sherlock said, squeezing John's hand to show support. He waited a few minutes before deciding that John probably wasn't going to continue the conversation, just a second before John started speaking.

"I... I didn't-" John said, faltering slightly and stumbling over his words. He turned, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder while his cheeks flushed and his eyes began to burn. Sherlock stayed quiet, trying to give John the room he needed to find whatever words he was searching for. After several moments of silence where John focused on measuring his breaths and relaxing enough to speak again, the words tumbled from his mouth so quickly that Sherlock almost didn't catch them.

"Ididn'tsaynoandInevershoutedforhelpIthoughthewouldkillme."

John turned away from Sherlock then, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them while he buried his hands in his own hair, tugging it slightly.

"John?" Sherlock asked, softly and carefully, waiting a beat before asking, "Can I touch you? Is that alright?"

John nodded minutely, much to Sherlock's relief. Sherlock scooted over to John, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. He rubbed his hand up and down John's thoracic spine, heart twinging slightly at the minuscule shake in the doctor's shoulders. 

"That doesn't make it your fault, John. That doesn't make  _you_ disgusting. Do you know that?"

"I could have shouted. I could have fought harder. I'm a soldier. I'm a  _Captain._ " 

"And if you had, they may have shot and killed you there in the street. You were preserving your life, not  _giving in_ , John, please believe that."

"I don't know."

"Then maybe defer to my better judgement? Because I  _do_ know."

John nodded, letting his body relax into Sherlock's arms, clearly finished talking for the day. Sherlock leaned back, pulling John with him to that the doctor stayed nestled against his chest, while he was sandwiched between John and the couch. Tentatively, he reached up to run his fingers through John's hair, enjoying the physical contact immensely. He smiled, as he felt both John and himself drifting to sleep in the comfort of each other's body heat.


	6. Broken Glass Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John trashes 221B's kitchen in a fit of frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovely readers, for reading and commenting and subscribing and leaving kudos. You're all wonderful.

The second time John and Sherlock went to get groceries went much better than the first, which is what lead to John's decision that he might be able to handle traveling across town for counseling, which is what, inadvertently, lead to John nearly destroying their kitchen in a fit of rage and frustration.

At least, that's what Sherlock told himself while he stood, frozen, halfway between the living room and the kitchen, open-mouthed, as John flipped the kitchen table, complete with glass beakers and microscope, clear over on its side. This wasn't the first indication, of course, that John was agitated by the conversation he'd had at his appointment earlier that day, but Sherlock hadn't quite noticed John's stomping gait as he stormed up the stairs, or the way he slammed the door upon entering the flat, or the exasperated sigh he heaved upon finding  _something_ in the kettle which  _most certainly was not tea_. The table, however- that got his attention, springing him from his mind palace to the very real, very angry, red-faced army doctor standing in front of him, bristling with emotion.

"...don't know what to  _do_ anymore, and she's  _not helping_ , she expects me to be able to tell her how I'm supposed to go about  _being normal_ again, and if I knew that, I wouldn't need to be seeing a fucking therapist, now WOULD I?!"

"John, please, calm down. Tell me what's going on, but calm down, stop-"

The crash of the kettle against the wall was enough to convince Sherlock to stop trying to reason with him and simply wait the storm out.

"Oh, you want me to tell you what's going on? How about I do that, then. Bring you up to speed. She says to me today, Sherlock, she says, 'Now, John, you should know that you're responsible for your own recovery from this. It's all up to you. We'll work through it at your own speed, on your terms.'  _I'm responsible_ , am I? HA!" John said, punctuating his statement by wiping his arm down the counter, sending appliances and miscellaneous objects all clattering to the floor, haphazardly. 

"If I was  _responsible_  for this, I wouldn't  _need_ therapy. I'm not  _in charge._   _Nothing about this is up to me_ ,  _DOES ANYONE GET THAT? I don't GET a say!_ " He shouted, moving for the next counter, and forcibly uprooting the dish drying rack from the counter before throwing it across the room to collide with a bookshelf. "If I got to work though this at 'my own speed' I would be DONE by now! I would be FINE! I DON'T GET A SAY IN ANYTHING THAT IS HAPPENING TO ME, I don't get a say in how I feel, or what is happening in the investigation, or how I fucking 'recover.' I'm just here for the ride!"

John turned now, facing the mess on the floor, before stooping down to pick up a bottle of stool softening pills that he had thrown to the floor in his tirade. He turned back to Sherlock, shaking the bottle for effect as he continued, "My life is so out of control that I CAN'T EVEN TAKE A SHIT WITHOUT MEDICATION, BECAUSE SOME RAPIST DECIDED TO CLEAVE ME NEARLY IN HALF JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT! And she has the  _audacity_ to say that this is  _ON MY TERMS?!_ Nothing is on my terms. None of this is on my terms.  _Getting raped was not on my terms, having panic attacks is not on my terms, going to therapy to deal with getting raped and having panic attacks is NOT ON MY TERMS._ It's just something I HAVE to do now, if I expect to go back to normal. It's not a  _choice_ , just because it's the decision I made. 'Be crazy forever and never leave the flat, or go talk to a stranger about how you think you're going crazy and maybe be able to go back to work soon.' Where's the choice in that? It's NOT. A. CHOICE." He hollered, pounding his fists into the cabinet doors above his head, the fight slowly draining out of him. Finally, he stopped moving, leaving his fists clenched and resting above his head, breathing heavily. _  
_

Sherlock watched him from the doorway for a few more moments, to be sure that he wouldn't be setting off another grenade by speaking. Quietly, he said, "John, can you stand there for a few minutes? There's broken glass everywhere, and you're already bleeding. No need to make it worse by stepping on a broken beaker. I'm going to clear a path, alright?"

John nodded, moving his hands down to rest on the empty countertop, leaning on it while the adrenaline washed out of his system, leaving his skin clammy and knees weak. He glanced down briefly, taking in his bleeding knuckles and a few angry scratches on his legs where broken glass had cut through his trouser legs and sock-clad feet. Sherlock had nearly finished clearing a small section of the floor by the time John called him, worrying that he was going to fall over. He was suddenly so, so  _tired_. 

"Sherlock? Are you almost-"

"Right here," Sherlock's voice came from just a step behind him, wrapping an arm around John's back and grasping him by the elbow to guide him through the wreckage of the kitchen into his soft living room chair. There, he sat the doctor down while he tended to his cuts, luckily not finding any that appeared to need stitches.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I probably broke your micro-"

"You did. It's fine. I was planning on upgrading to a more powerful model anyway," Sherlock said, not letting John finish the question because he was simply  _done_ with hearing John apologize to him. He'd been doing it more and more often, and now, maybe this was actually a reasonable thing to apologize for- destroying quite a valuable amount of your flatmate's property because you were angry with your therapist- but Sherlock wasn't having it. He'd heard John apologize nearly three times as often in the recent past, and he  _did not_ want to hear it again.  _This is not your fault, John. Please stop being sorry._ _Be angry. Be depressed. But no more apologies. I can't stand it._

John peered over his shoulder to get a better look at the kitchen, shuddering. He'd always had his father's temper, that much anyone would agree to, but it was rare for him to have an outburst like this. He opened his mouth again, feeling the need to apologize for what he saw as frankly, ridiculous behavior, but before he got the words out, Sherlock cut him off.

"Don't you dare say you're sorry."

"I... okay. I didn't really mean to break everything, though."

"It's fine. Accidents happen," Sherlock said, becoming acutely aware of the tickling itch in his veins, of his need to get away from the powder keg that 221B has become, and of the glaring reality that he can neither scratch the itch or leave the building without leaving John alone, which is not really an option at all.

Sherlock, who had been kneeling in front of John, felt his body sink closer to the ground and let his face bury itself in John's knees, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head telling him that  _he_ really should be the one comforting  _John_ right now, not the other way around. He finds he can't help it, though, and the thought of his stash taped to the underside of the pipe in the wall, three inches to the left of the medicine cabinet in the loo, keeps him on the floor, resting on John. He knows exactly where he'll go if he permits himself to stand. _  
_

The muscles of John's thighs relax under his cheek, and he feels John's fingers working their way through his hair, relaxing him.

"I'm doing better, I think," John said quietly,  after a few minutes of silence, his fingers still weaving in and out of Sherlock's curls. "But I get so angry when I think about the fact that I'm having to work so hard to get better from  _that._ It makes me so angry that I have to deal with all of this; it's ridiculous. I'm a grown man, and I can barely look at myself in the mirror." He sighed, hands stilling on Sherlock's scalp but continuing to rest there, the warm pressure comforting the detective.

Sherlock nodded subtly, rubbing his cheek slightly against John's leg as he did so. He cleared his throat before saying, "You are. Doing better, that is."

"You can tell?"

"Of course I can tell, John. I observe."

"Well, good, I guess. We need to clean up the kitchen though. I've made a right mess of it."

"No, don't move," Sherlock said, placing one of his hands on John's thigh. "Stay here for a bit."

"Aren't you uncomfortable? On the floor like that?"

"No. It's good. I like your hands there."

John responded by threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair once more, gently. "Alright. I could stand to do this for a little bit."

"Thank you."

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Is something bothering you, besides me acting like a raging lunatic?"

"Yes. But, just... can you just keep your hands there? Please. That's all. I'm fine."

"Okay. You know you can talk to me, right?" John asked, stroking a curl away from Sherlock's temple and behind his ear.

"Of course I can. I'm talking to you right now."

"Don't be a git. You know what I mean."

Sherlock turned his head to look John in the eye, distinctly feeling cold where John's hands fell from his scalp at the sudden movement.

"If I find I need to talk about it, I will. Meanwhile, do this for me. It helps," he said, placing his cheek back in John's lap and pulling his hands back to his hair.

"Okay," John said, resting his aching neck against the back of his chair, and appreciating the warmth of Sherlock's body wrapped around his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote about half of this chapter on my phone, and am posting it from my phone as well... so hopefully the formatting isn't too screwed up. Just didn't feel like waiting to get to my computer.


	7. Lucid Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a nightmare and John helps him through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still can't believe how many people are reading this. Thank you, all of you. It truly means a lot to me. 
> 
> I'm basing a lot of this on my own experiences, making it something of a study in recovery. The things Sherlock is dealing with are things that my lover has had to deal with as well, in the fallout of the sexual assault and abuse I experienced. It takes a toll on your partner, and sometimes I wonder if the toll it takes on them is just as large as the toll it took on me. It's a different type of pain, when someone you love is hurt vs. when you yourself are hurt, but it's a very real, tangible pain nonetheless. I've tried to capture Sherlock's pain in this fic just as poignantly as John's.

Sherlock remembers Mycroft teaching him lucid dreaming one summer when the elder Holmes was visiting from university. Ever since Mycroft had left for his term, Sherlock had been plagued with vivid nightmares that left him sputtering awake, breathless and shaking, at the wee hours of the morning. Together, they worked on training Sherlock in becoming aware when he was dreaming and how to manipulate the situation. Sometimes, he was able to take the reigns of his subconscious and steer the dream away from whatever horror he had imagined for that night. Others, he was at least aware that the nightmare would end soon, as he could differentiate it from reality. It didn't make the dreams stop, but, it did give him a little more ammunition to defend himself with. 

Sherlock found himself, now, desperately wishing that he had spent more time learning lucid dreaming in his youth, as he was currently trapped in a nightmare. He was halfway between knowing this wasn't real, and feeling like it was, and he was nowhere near under enough control to alter any part of the dream.  _I am asleep. I think. I think I'm asleep, I can wake up soon, I'm fine. This is all fine, not happening,_ he reassured himself, as he felt his legs carry him down the alley where he had originally found John the night he was raped.

The scene before him was a surprise, however, when he realized that the nightmare wouldn't be him  _watching_ a subconscious video of John's assault. The alley was empty, and dark. He was alone.  _Of course I'm alone. I'm sleeping. WAKE UP._

The arm around his neck, restraining him, and the zip ties that were suddenly around his wrists really shouldn't have surprised him, he thought in hindsight. He realized, after trying desperately not to think of it for weeks on end, that his mind was giving him a show of the deductions he had made at the scene of the crime.  _This is what I deduced happened to John. Wake up! Christ, this is absurd. I should be able to wake up if I know I'm asl-_

His thoughts were interrupted by pain slicing through his ankles as a steel-toed boot ground down on his achilles, goosebumps prickling his flesh as one of his nightmare-assailants freed him of his trousers and pants.  _Stop doing this to yourself. You're sleeping. You're IN CONTROL. WAKE. UP. NOT. REAL._

The scream that tore from his throat as he was penetrated by the man in his nightmare was real enough to cross over into reality, waking John from the doze he had fallen into sitting in front of the telly an hour or two ago. John bolted from his chair, not bothering to knock on the door as he tore into Sherlock's room, finding the man grimacing, hands gripping the sheet with white knuckles, while he shouted into the darkness. His eyes were squinted shut, sweat glistening on his brow and at the dip above his sternum. 

"Sherlock?! Are you awake?" John asked, fairly certain that the detective would have already protested his presence if he were, indeed, conscious. As John suspected, there was no answer but Sherlock's gasping breath between pained moans. John quickly made his way to Sherlock's side, shaking his shoulder roughly to wake him. "Sherlock! It's alright! Wake up!"

After a few more rough shoves, Sherlock roused, sitting straight and silencing himself immediately. His eyes were wide, face pale, and lips trembling. His eyes darted around, as if assessing the situation to be sure he was really awake, before he shoved John to the side with both hands and stumbled into the loo. He didn't even have time to close the door, much less lock it, before he was forced to his knees in front of the toilet, retching loudly and violently. John swiftly followed him, grabbing the empty water glass from Sherlock's bedside table as he went. 

He'd dealt with an ill Sherlock in the past, which usually resulted in John offering his medical advice and company, and Sherlock shouting about the uselessness of transport and throwing him out of the room for the duration of his illness. However, what John found when he entered the loo was a sight far from what he had been expecting. Sherlock was visibly shaking, from head to foot, skin pale as a sheet, the weight of his head fully resting on the toilet seat, on his cheek. His eyes were bloodshot from the force of his retching, tears drying on his face in a salty mix of natural saline and mucous. The way he was draped over the toilet made it appear that he had no spine whatsoever, and he looked much smaller than the size his presence usually commanded. He had one hand clutching the outside of the toilet bowl for support, and the other wrapped around his middle, while he took deep breaths in an effort to push down the nausea. 

John filled the glass with cool water from the tap, and grabbed a damp flannel, holding them out to Sherlock wordlessly, while he sat down on the floor next to him. Sherlock reached for the flannel first, nearly dropping it with his shaking fingers. He slowly used it to wash off his face, and then folded it and pressed it to the back of his neck, before he took the water from John to rinse his mouth.

"You should drink some of that too, you know. Not just swish and spit," John offered, his voice quiet and kind. Sherlock shook his head, placing the half-full glass back on the ground.

"Not yet? Still queasy?" John asked, wondering if the vomiting was all due to nerves or if it were something he had eaten from their biohazard of a fridge.

Sherlock nodded in confirmation before adding, "It's just a nightmare. I'm not actually ill." His voice was rough and scratchy, and he spoke at a volume barely above a whisper. John leaned in to hear him better, and remembering how Sherlock had liked him playing with his hair the other day, reached over and smoothed out the sweaty curls that had plastered themselves to the side of his face. 

Sherlock felt as if he were teetering over the edge, somewhere between completely breaking down and pulling himself together. He didn't dare make a move to get up, as he knew his legs would feel like jelly for at least a few more minutes, and as embarrassed as he was over the situation, he couldn't bring himself to ask John to leave. 

"What was it about? I've never seen you like this, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was unable to find the right words to describe what he had just woken from. "I... it was..." he mumbled, closing his eyes and shaking his head against the images that bombarded him. Without warning, the nausea came back and he leaned over the toilet again, opening his mouth and spitting out the saliva that was pooling there. He was shaking again, and felt his heart racing madly under his ribcage. He heaved once, nothing coming up from his empty stomach, and felt John's hand rubbing slow, firm circles on his back. 

"Okay, okay, we're not going to talk about it right now. It's alright. Deep breath in, Sherlock. And out. There, good, control your core muscles. You've got it. You're alright, it's over. It's okay now," John said, his voice calm and low, comforting Sherlock while at the same time bringing him closer to a tipping point that he was trying desperately to avoid. John scooted closer to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders and pulling him onto his chest, resting his cheek on the top of Sherlock's curls. "There now, love. It's okay. I've got you. We're okay," he murmured, rocking slightly to the side.

"...John?" Sherlock asked, but his voice broke halfway through his name, and he found he couldn't finish the question. He was completely overcome by the emotional turmoil of the past weeks, and suddenly found himself crying like a child. He didn't gasp for air or choke on his sobs, but broke down weeping in earnest, his face buried in John's t-shirt. He felt utterly defeated; completely shattered. For a time, he wasn't sure if he was ever going to stop- the tears just seemed to keep coming. By the time they died down, his body ached as if he had the flu, and he felt numb and dry. John held him throughout, stroking his hair and rocking him as if he were five years old. He felt so  _stupid_ , but he wasn't able to stop it. It was one of only a handful of times in his life that his emotions had been completely out of control. 

"Alright now, love?" John asked, after Sherlock had stilled and his shirt had begun drying. Sherlock nodded, still not trusting himself to speak. Had he not been so pale and worn out from the ordeal, his cheeks may have flushed from embarrassment at falling apart like this. As it was, he found he couldn't bring himself to care. 

John gradually extracted Sherlock from his lap, and then bent down to help him to his feet. He guided the both of them into Sherlock's bedroom, where Sherlock stumbled to the dresser to change into sleepwear that wasn't crusted with sick and sweat. John sat down, patiently waiting for Sherlock to come to bed. When Sherlock turned around, John caught the hint of surprise in Sherlock's eye.

"I'll kip here for the rest of the night, if that's alright with you, love?" John asked, making it easy for Sherlock to read the  _I know you're not okay, and I don't want to leave you alone_ behind his words.

Sherlock nodded, laying down next to his doctor and letting his aching body sink into the mattress while John curled around him and rested his head on the dip just below Sherlock's clavicle. Neither of them got any more sleep that night, but Sherlock was so, _so_ thankful to feel the warmth of John's body against his side after the events of the evening, he didn't care. He never wanted to sleep again, anyway, and if not sleeping meant cuddling with what was possibly the world's cuddliest doctor, well, who needed sleep?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please comment. I love hearing from you. It truly makes me smile, each and every time.


	8. Free-fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite a lot of talking about sex.  
> And then maybe, a little bit of sex. Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's kind of some sex in this chapter. Obviously, if you read the description. It's not like porny-porn, but, eh. The fic is rated explicit for a reason. Just giving ya'll a heads up.

Things began to fall into a relatively normal pattern, punctuated by small stumbles and bumps in the road that came in the form of nightmares, panic attacks, ill-timed angry outbursts, and unexpected showers of emotion. Life, these days, seemed to be more ragged edges and broken parts than logic and order, but they were making do well enough, despite the fact that the bruises proved to fade from John's skin much faster than those from either of their hearts. 

John stayed in therapy, and as much as he hated it, they both had to admit it was working. He knew how to recognize things that would trigger him- men in boots, people walking behind him, feeling things touch his wrists or hips- and could, mostly, either deal with the trigger or avoid it completely. He'd finally agreed to prescription anxiety pills that he could take as-needed if he felt panic coming on. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock was the one who urged him to take them, rather than sitting helpless on the sidelines while John tried to "breathe through it" for the second or third time that day. They left him tired and slow, but it was better than the cold sweat of fear he had grown accustomed to recently, and he found that he needed them less and less as the weeks wore on. 

He'd taken to wearing his jumpers with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows, so as not to feel like his wrists were restrained. Sherlock still had to make an effort not to flinch every time his eyes darted over the slim, light pink scar on the side of John's wrists where the zip-ties had cut through the skin. Sherlock didn't mention that John had started taking cabs everywhere rather than walking, and John didn't mention that Sherlock always called him if he was more than a minute or two late getting home. Sherlock kept smoking, but only when John was out, and John stopped asking him to quit. They both knew that things had changed, but it was an unspoken agreement to not discuss it if a discussion wasn't necessary. 

John went back to work a few days a week at the clinic, and Sherlock began taking cases again- but mostly cold case files, heavy on brainwork and light on legwork. He had tried a new case, about two weeks after John had returned to work, and John came with him to the scene, but they left less than ten minutes after they'd arrived. Sherlock only needed to take one look at John- a sideways glance, at best, even- to see what the police tape and lights were making him remember. That was all the convincing he'd needed to determine that the Yard would have to function on their own for the time being. Sherlock knew, eventually, they would go back to running through the streets in the dead of the night with the wind at their backs and a killer just a step ahead, but not yet. He was surprised to find that he was okay with that. They were both, still, far more comfortable at home, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, watching telly. For the first time in Sherlock's life, curing boredom was trumped by the concrete knowledge that his doctor was safe and sound, by his side. 

Ever since the night that John had woken Sherlock from his nightmare, the one that he  _still_ refused to explain, Sherlock had seemed softer, to him, in a way. Where before he had all been abrasive edges and cold logic, John found that he had suddenly unlocked the more human side of Sherlock that the detective tried so hard to keep under wraps. He clearly took the consideration to never encroach on John's personal space, but when given the okay, Sherlock stayed close to John, finding excuses to stand next to him in the kitchen holding hands, putting his head on John's shoulder while watching telly, resting his socked foot on top of John's under the table while eating dinner at home. Each small touch and brush of skin felt like a warm embrace to John, saying  _I'm here,_ and  _I love you_ , and  _We're in this together_. 

Slowly, slowly, things started to feel normal, despite the smattering of lingering problems that were finally beginning to fade. They wouldn't, and couldn't, go back to the way things had been before John was attacked, but they were creating a new baseline, amidst the rough waters of recovery. The question "Are you okay?" had a different meaning to them now, closer to _Do you need me to stay home with you today?_ or  _Do you need your medication?_ than before, when it had just been used as a confirmation to make sure one of them hadn't been physically injured during a case. _  
_

John's nightmares didn't really start causing a problem until several weeks after the attack, which puzzled Sherlock, but was _completely normal and expected_ according to John's frustratingly calm therapist, who seemed to  _always_  think things were  _completely normal and expected_  in this type of situation. They hadn't progressed to sharing a bed every night before this had happened, but after the nightmares started, it was really just more practical. They always ended up in each other's bed anyway, it seemed. Sherlock, who had never been one to worry about anything nearly as mundane as healthy sleeping habits, took to sitting in a soft armchair by the bed if John decided to sleep when he wasn't interested, and quickly learned the signs of a nightmare coming on- John's hands would clench, and his breath would quicken. The man had never been a still sleeper, but when his dreams took a turn for the worse, his muscles would jump and quiver under his skin as if he were trying to run or fight. Mostly, Sherlock was able to see it before it progressed to anything too terrifying, and would wake John up, from a distance, with his name spoken rather loudly. He had learned the hard way, many years before this, that you shouldn't wake up a war veteran from a nightmare while standing too close. His nose still twinged, slightly, at the memory. _  
_

John's sleeping form was what Sherlock found himself thinking about, as he was trying to focus on his latest experiment involving how the application of motor oil affected the decomposition of fingers. He felt as if someone was watching him, which he felt more often than not these days, and generally ignored the short hairs that stood erect on the back of his neck. But this time, he realized it must be John, staring at him from the living room. Sherlock swiveled around, nearly sliding off his seat from the lack of friction between his dressing gown and the kitchen chair, to find he was correct (of course); John was sitting in Sherlock's chair, staring, with just the shadow of a smile on his face, his cheek resting on the palm of his hand.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his tone akin to  _You're looking at me as if I've grown a third ear._

"Nothing," John answered, and then corrected himself. "You."

"Yes, I've established that it's  _me_ you're staring at.  _Why_?"

"You're the detective," John said, smiling in earnest now. "Why do you think?"

Sherlock turned fully around now, his eyes focusing on the small details of John's posture- the way he leaned subtly forward, the barely noticeable flush to his cheeks, the way his smile actually reached his eyes today and pressed small lines into the corners of his eyelids. It clicked into place.

"Really?"

"Really, what? Are you going to tell me what you've figured out?" John asked, leaning back in the chair and looking at Sherlock in amusement.

"You're..." Sherlock started, narrowing his eyes and giving the deduction more thought. It was certainly an easy conclusion. Just, unexpected.

"I'm?" John prompted, licking his lips, making Sherlock acutely aware of the fact that he'd stopped talking and left his mouth partly open, drying his tongue.

"Aroused," Sherlock finished, with a statement rather than a question, but his eyebrows still looked questioning. Then he added, "by me."

"Yes, well, that about sums it up, well done Detective Sherlock," John said, with mock praise.

Sherlock abruptly stood, pushed John's chair close enough to almost graze John's knees from where he sat in Sherlock's, and then sat in front of him. He could read the signs John's body was giving him like an open book- but that didn't make  _deciding_  what to  _do_ any easier. 

"What do you... want to do about it?" Sherlock asked, feeling immensely foolish for how idiotic the question sounded. He kept his poker face, though.

John laughed, sending a flush to Sherlock's face and a smile to his lips. "What do I...? Sherlock! What kind of  _question_ is that?" John answered, leaning forward more and placing his hand on Sherlock's thigh, just above his knee. Sherlock glared at him, unwilling to explain himself further, making John sigh, feigning exasperation, still grinning. He inched to the edge of Sherlock's chair, and pressed his hand flat across Sherlock's bare sternum, his dressing gown falling open slightly around his hand. Sherlock cleared his throat, stopping John dead in his tracks.

"John, we really need to discuss exactly what's happening here before things go further than they should. I don't know what you want right now. I don't know if you're  _ready_ for what you want. Do you even know?" Sherlock asked, his tone a mixture of anxiety and arousal.

John moved his hand off Sherlock's chest and down to his hand, lacing their fingers together. "I want... you. I want to be close to you. I want to touch you, everywhere. I don't know if I'll know if I'm ready until I try something. So, can we just, try something? An experiment?" John asked, standing and tugging lightly on Sherlock's hand. "Come to bed with me, love. Please?"

"You're sure?"

"Do I look like I'm sure?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure, love," John said, pulling Sherlock out of his chair and leading him to the bed they'd been sharing for the past few weeks.

Sherlock let John pull him into their room, equal parts of apprehension and excitement pooling in his stomach.  _This could be very, very nice, or very, very bad,_ he thought, as John sat him down on his side of the bed, slowly pulling Sherlock's dressing gown from his shoulders. Sherlock noticed the lights were on.  _Don't people turn the lights off? Should I be embarrassed? Is John? Christ, there are so many variables involved in human intimacy._ _We couldn't just be like animals, fucking in the jungle for all the world to see whenever the mood strikes._ His thoughts were silenced by a slight pressure on his shoulders- John's hands pushing him against the pillows, John's lips, kissing his neck.

 _John's lips, kissing his neck_.

"John... this is not an  _experiment_ , those have-  _oh._ Controls. This isn't-  _oh, John-_ controlled. This is  _free-fall_."

They were both still wearing sleep trousers, John in an old army t-shirt and Sherlock bare-chested, when Sherlock decided to relax and let John do whatever he wanted. John knelt over him, running his fingers along his ribs and stomach, pressing kisses to the dips in his sternum and clavicle. Sherlock hummed appreciatively as John caressed him, occasionally brushing their lips together, before focusing once again on his jaw line or his pulsating jugular. He lost track of time, focusing all of his energy on recording the feeling of John's breath on his pectorals, John's fingers in his hair, John's tongue on his neck. 

After a time, neither of them was quite sure how long it had been, John stilled, leaning slightly in to Sherlock where he was straddling Sherlock's thigh, pressing into him. He groaned at the combination of relief and renewed want the small amount of friction brought him. Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John's suddenly unsure gaze.

"John, we don't have to-"

"I know, but," John started, breathing heavily, pressing himself into Sherlock's thigh again before pulling back a bit. "I know. But I  _want_ you and I'm so  _tired_ of  _waiting._ I want this. I've wanted this since  _before_ everything..." he trailed off, gesturing absently around the room as if the words were hanging somewhere in the air. _  
_

Sherlock reached up and wrapped his hand around John's bicep, feeling the blood pulsing through his veins just beneath the skin. "We can do _whatever_ you want, John. And we can stop _whenever_  you need to. But there's no need to push yourself too far, all at once. We have all the time in the world."

John stared back at him, not sure what to say or how to proceed. His expression must have shown precisely how lost he felt, because Sherlock brought his other hand up to John's other bicep, pulling him down slightly to lay next to him in bed, facing each other. 

"I was right, earlier. We need to talk about this."

"I don't know what to say. I don't even know what to  _do_ , and usually I've got no issue on that front..." John started, breaking eye contact with Sherlock and addressing his chest rather than his face.

Sherlock reached out and gingerly brought his hand to John's cheek, guiding his eyes back up to his own. 

"You're worried, about something specific. I can tell. You're thinking about it right now. What is it?"

"It's stupid."

"It's not  _stupid_ , John. And I'm sure that therapist of your's has already told you that it's  _completely normal and expected_ , hasn't she?"

"Yeah, she has."

"So?"

"I don't know if I agree with her."

"You're a doctor. You know if she's right. Is she right?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me what it is. I can't help if I don't know. We've had this conversation at least five times."

"Six, now."

"Stop. It's fine. You're safe. _Talk to me_ ," Sherlock said, running his hand across John's shoulder reassuringly. 

John closed his eyes, his cheeks flushing slightly before he even began speaking. "I'm going to have a panic attack when I see your penis," he said, quickly, getting it all out in one breath before he thought better of it. 

"You  _might_ have a panic attack when you see my penis. And  _if_ you do, _it's fine_. It's not like I can't put it away once it's out," Sherlock answered, conversationally, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to talk about in bed with your lover.

"No. I'm  _definitely_ going to," John answered, still refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"And what did your therapist say? Besides  _'that's normal and completely expected in these types of situations'_?"

"That I'll get used to it, if I take it slow and give myself a few chances. Kind of like exposure therapy. Eventually the trigger doesn't  _trigger_ anymore."

"That sounds reasonable."

"It sounds like I'm going to make a fool out of myself."

"John, the last thing you're doing is making a fool out of yourself. You're strong. Dealing with this notoriously one of the most difficult things people go through. It's just what happens."

"I know. I hate it."

"You're doing well," Sherlock said, running his thumb along the bony ridge near John's temple. "And, for the record, I liked that- what you were doing earlier."

"Yeah, I gathered as much from the sounds you were making," John said, allowing himself to smile again. "I still want... I still want to do more, something. Can we try? Do you want to?"

"Do you really think I would say no, after that?" Sherlock asked, grinning, and learning in to kiss John on the lips. "But make sure you tell me," Sherlock continue, punctuating his sentence with kisses along John's jawline,"when you want to stop. You're in charge, Captain Watson." It was the wink that did John in, this time.

Sherlock pressed his hands under John's t-shirt, running his palms along his muscles and scars, without making a move to disrobe him. John breathed heavily in Sherlock's ear, before inching closer to him and nibbling his neck while his hands found Sherlock's waistband. He tugged softly, and Sherlock willingly shimmied out of his flannel trousers, leaving him far more exposed, laying next to John in just his pants. John's hand trailed across Sherlock's hip, conspicuously avoiding the area that was beginning to feel as if it were begging for friction. Sherlock felt a thumb worm it's way under the waistband of his pants, and then still. He opened his eyes to glance at John, who had stopped moving entirely, his pupils wide with arousal but his expression nervous. 

"John, it's fine."

"Can I...? Can I take these off?" he asked, pulling slightly on the waistband.

"You're okay?"

"I... I don't know. Do I look okay?"

"I... it's hard to tell the difference between arousal and anxiety. You're pupils are dilated, which could indicate either. Your pulse, too. Do you feel okay?"

"I don't know. I  _want_ , but I... I think I'm panicking over the idea that I might have a panic attack. This is stupid."

"Well, if you do that, you're never going to find out if you  _would_ have a panic attack. And isn't that the whole point?"

"No, actually, the original point was for at least one of us to get off using something other than our own hands for once."

"Then _take my pants off_ , John," Sherlock said, rocking his pelvis up against John's hand subtly. John inhaled through his nose deeply before sliding Sherlock's pants down, leaving him quite naked compared to John's pajama-clad body.

" _Oh, Christ, Sherlock_ ," was all Sherlock made out before he was lost in the feeling of John's skin on his own. It wasn't long before his orgasm hit him, his muscles tensing and releasing of their own accord, pleasure rippling through his system. Less than a second later, he was assaulted with the cold draft of John's absence as he left their bed, nearly running to the loo and locking the door behind him. 

Sherlock haphazardly wrapped his dressing gown around himself, wiping up the mess with his discarded pants and then dropping them back on the floor, stepping into his trousers and pulling them up on the way to the locked door. 

"John? Why did you go? What is it?" Sherlock asked, through the door, not wanting to resort to picking the lock if everything was actually fine.

He could barley hear John's answer, but couldn't mistake his gasping breaths. "I... I can't  _breath_. I can't. Go- away. Fucking- stupid," John said, desperately sucking in lungfuls of air and berating himself at the same time.

"I'm picking the lock, sorry. It's fine. You're alright. You're having a panic attack, and we knew this might happen, and you  _can_ breathe. It doesn't feel like it. But you  _can_. Are your fingers tingling?" Sherlock asked, automatically starting on the checklist he'd established for these situations. 

"A little."

"Did you take a pill when you got in here?" Sherlock said, opening the door as he sat down on the floor next to John.

"Yeah, that's why I-" he gasped for air again. "-came in here."

"Can I touch you? You're hyperventilating." 

"Yes. Please- do- the thing," John managed between gasps.

Sherlock slid closer to John's side, smoothing one palm against John's stomach and another between his shoulder blades, falling easily into a position that they'd come up with to help him breathe during the worse attacks. John leaned heavily against Sherlock's chest with his shoulder, making a concerted effort to slow his respirations but failing miserably. The buildup of CO2 in his system was starting to make his lips and cheeks tingle as well as his fingers. Sherlock lowered his voice to just above a whisper, speaking into John's ear, "You're alright. You're safe. I've got you. When you inhale, I want you to push against my hand with your core muscles. Good, like that. Breath in, one, two, three..." 

Sherlock kept counting, instructing John to breath in for three beats and exhale for five, until the return of oxygen combined with the anxiolytic in his system started calming him down. Feeling him relax against his chest after a time, Sherlock stood, pulling John up with him, guiding them both back to bed. 

John was staring off into space when Sherlock settled next to him, but looked over and focused on Sherlock when he started talking.

"I know that didn't end... quite they way you would have liked, but. It was quite nice," he tried, feeling himself blushing.

"Why are  _you_ the one blushing, when  _I'm_ the one that cried over getting come on his hand?" John said, poking fun at his own reaction.

"I haven't... been with someone, for a very long time. Its, erm. It's nice. You're nice. You're very...  _good_. At  _that_."

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, laughing again. 

"Why are you laughing!?" Sherlock asked, indignant.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just... that was hardly  _anything,_ I just wanked you off with my  _hand_ , Sherlock, and I have a bloody panic attack over it and you act like it was the best sex you've had in a decade. We're hopeless," John said, barely able to contain his laughter enough to get the words out.

Sherlock smiled back at him, seeing the humor in the situation. "We've never been a very conventional couple, John."

"I suppose not, no."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still can't believe this many people are subscribed and reading this ridiculous thing. You're all wonderful. Leave me comments and I'll love you even more.


	9. Circling the Drain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of John's attackers is found and he struggles with the fallout. This is from his point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, as always. You're wonderful.

_I realized, dimly, after I took the call, that I'd have to talk to the police again. And my lawyer. And the other man's lawyer, probably. I was glad they had found him. Well. Maybe glad isn't the right word. But, he was found- the one that had raped me, not the one who'd held the barrel of a gun to my ribcage, but I'll take what I can get. As soon as I got off the phone, I felt like there was a solid block of ice sitting in the bottom of my stomach. Sherlock looked like he felt rather similar, but he jumped up, eager to get things over with, making sure we got to the station, paying the cab fare, staunchly refusing to let go of my hand (thank God) as we met with the detective, the police, the lawyers, the people who's faces and names all bled together for me._

_It all took an eternity, but it was over before I realized we were leaving. I don't even remember what I said, mostly. I'll have to ask my lawyer, later, or Sherlock, before the trial._

_Christ, there's going to be a trial._

_Of course, the bastard's out on bail (much to Sherlock's protest), and the lawyers are fighting over whether he should be offered a plea of aggravated assault rather than rape, because the story he's going with is that the sex was entirely consensual (of course), but things got a little rough (you think?), and maybe out of hand (I never would have guessed, considering the state of my rectum). His lawyers say that he'll plead guilty to aggravated (non-sexual) assault, and we can keep this all out of the courtroom and (for the most part) the newspapers. I won't budge, though. I was raped. He is a rapist; he should pay. He will, I'm confident of that (mostly, sometimes)._

_I've been informed that, because of the nature of my professional relationship with the World's Only Consulting Detective, I'm "high-profile," and "this could easily be picked up by any news outlet; we're lucky it hasn't already," and (from his lawyer) "if you take this to court, it will follow him for the rest of his life, destroy his family and career. He has children. Is that really all necessary, when we can settle this easily behind closed doors?"_

_My reaction to all of this is swinging wildly (unpredictably) between furiously, ravenously angry, and nauseatingly disgusted. On the way back to Baker Street, before slipping into the cab that Sherlock was guiding me towards with a tentative hand placed at the small of my back, I had to turn from him and was violently ill, emptying the contents of my (mostly empty) stomach in the street, in front of the cars and pedestrians. My cheeks are still burning nearly as much as my throat. Sherlock had to hail another cab._

_Really, I'd been getting better, until now. Until this. I don't know what I was expecting; obviously he wasn't going to admit to what he did (sniveling, cowardly bastard). I wasn't prepared for this, though. I haven't been prepared for any of it, and that's part of the problem. I feel like I'm tied to a bullet train, getting bashed along the tracks until my body finally gives up and rips apart at the seams. It's all so out of my control; out of Sherlock's, too, and I know it's getting to him._

_God, Sherlock. Thank God for Sherlock._

_It was like a flip switched in my head, once the legal stuff started to get underway. I don't know why, really; I've been doing so well. It's been a few days, I think (I'd have to check a calendar to be sure, and to be honest, I can't be arsed) since they found the guy. Maybe a week? I haven't been to work; he hasn't taken a case. My stomach is in knots, and the little food that I can manage to keep down (very little, very rarely) still makes it's way out of me quickly (unpleasantly). I've never had gastrointestinal manifestations of stress, before this. The anxiolytic my therapist has me on isn't even taking the edge off, and I'm beginning to think I need something prescription-strength for my stomach, rather than the over-the-counter stuff I've been taking. I can't sleep, either._

_Not eating, not sleeping. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm turning into Sherlock. He's certainly turning into me._

_The fatigue is making my body ache, the way it does when you have a nasty case of the flu. My shoulder's been so sore that I sleep (when I sleep) half-propped on two pillows. My (psychosomatic) limp is back, and I've tried to hide it from Sherlock, but, well. He's Sherlock. He hasn't dug my cane out of the hall closet, yet, but he does offer his arm to me when it looks like I might stumble. I'd take Sherlock over the cane, any day._

_I haven't been this depressed since I was invalided home from Afghanistan, and if I had the strength to be alarmed by that, I would be. As it is, I struggle to get out of bed by one in the afternoon most days. Sherlock wakes me up (tries to wake me up) before noon, but it's past midday before I manage to stumble into the living room in my pajamas most days. Today, he said,_

_"John. You should shower. Maybe get dressed?"_

_I wanted to answer him, but I feel hollow and I don't know what to say. I stared through him, and he frowned at me._

_"It will make you feel better, John. You've told me so, before. It was like this, when you came home from the war, wasn't it?"_

_It wasn't like this at all, Sherlock. This is so much worse, I wanted to say, but the words were stuck in a lump in my throat and my mouth was dry (always dry, no matter how much tea I drink or how nauseous I get). Instead of answering, I curled up on the couch, on my side, my back pressed towards the cushions._

_He crossed over to me then, putting down the violin that I didn't realize he had been playing (trying to relax me, calm me down, always trying, always for me, and I almost resent him for it, but I can't). He took my hand and guided me to my feet. I didn't have the energy to protest._

_"Let me help, alright?"_

_I think I might have nodded, but I don't know. I don't know when I spoke last, actually (now that I think of it). It might have been two days ago. He led me to the loo, and ran the taps for the shower, letting it heat up to the (too hot) temperature he knew I wanted. I sat on the closed lid of the toilet and he brought me a change of clothes (pajamas, still, but clean) and a towel. He took my t-shirt off, and kissed my forehead, and said,_

_"Take a shower, John. I'll order dinner."_

_He left the room, and I took a shower. I used his soap, and I'm sure he noticed, but he'll never mention it. That's what we do now, not mentioning things. The nice thing about Sherlock, though, is that I know he always notices and (usually) understands._ _He's the only thing holding me together. He knows that, and I think it scares him more than it scares me, being responsible for another person all of a sudden (a grown man, pathetic). I feel like a failure, for breaking this way, after everything. But I can't stop it. I'm spiraling out of control (or maybe I'm circling the drain) and he's the one thing that's grounding me (tethering me)._

_Dinner sat heavy in my stomach, but I kept most of it down, I think. Sherlock sat with me, in the floor of the loo (like a child), while I got sick (he sits with me every time I get sick), and rubs my back the way I rubbed his the times he's been on this floor in similar positions. We've been here for maybe an hour (or more) now, and my body is out of my control, and I'm weeping (not crying, not sobbing, weeping like an elderly woman)._

_Everything is coming apart (I'm coming apart), but his arms are around me, holding me together (tightly), and I hope to God he doesn't let go (because I can't hold on anymore)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments? I love them, always.


	10. Tiny Jagged Edges of Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is overwhelmed, and asks for help. His point of view.

_I hold John until he stops crying, or rather, until the tears stop. I think, after the vomiting and the not drinking enough all day, he's just too dehydrated to generate any more liquid. His body can't spare the saline. His face is still screwed up into an expression I never, ever care to see again, but have to admit I probably will. My back aches and my legs are beginning to cramp, and I know his probably are as well, despite the way he feels boneless in my arms, slumped against my chest. I try to stand, cradling him still, intending to take him to bed and lay him down, but we stagger into the wall and end up back on the floor. He barely reacts; the wrung-out, empty look behind his eyes makes my stomach churn, so I stop looking at his face._

_"John, I think you should probably go to bed. Apparently I can't pick both of us up. Try to stand," I say, supporting his lower back from my spot on the floor, as he wordlessly and numbly stumbles to his feet. I can tell he's going to fall the moment he's upright, but I'm not quick enough to catch him, so he crashes to the ground, smacking his forehead on the wood of the doorframe. Luckily, not hard enough to really injure him, but he looks a bit stunned. I run my fingers through his hair for a moment before I stand._

_"Let me get your cane," I say, able to stretch my legs now that I don't have five and a half feet of army doctor draped around me. We both hate that I say it- about the cane- but I don't feel like I can support his weight right now. I'm nearly as shaky as he is._

_"No. No," he says, and I pause in the doorway. He hasn't spoken in 71.4 hours, and, in true John Watson fashion, his first word to me is 'no.' Of course. I smile, but he doesn't see. No matter. I watch, as he tries to stand again, leaning on the counter first, and then the wall as he stumbles towards the doorway. He takes my arm when he gets there, and we make it exactly three steps down the hall before we're falling again, because my body by itself just isn't strong enough to keep us both on our feet._

_"John, I can't support us both, I have to get your cane." The admission that I'm not strong enough to hold him up makes me want to stay here on the floor and cry along with him, but I won't give in to that. He looks at my hands, which are trembling. "Just hypoglycemic. I'll have some toast," I lie, but he doesn't see that any more than he saw me smile when he spoke. I'm not hypoglycemic. I've eaten today; I've eaten every day this week, actually. I can't let us both fall apart. The sentiment is what has me weak-kneed and shaking, and I'm ashamed that it's affecting me so. John wouldn't be, though. John would hold me and pet my hair and tell me that it's okay not to be a machine. But John has gone somewhere, hiding down inside that shattering mind of his, and he isn't here to do any of that. So I tell myself what I know John would tell me, I stand with muscles that quake under my frame, and I get his cane from the hall closet._

_Something painful and hot is shifting in my chest; I can feel my body fighting its instinct to breathe far more quickly than the current situation warrants, and I swallow back tears. I don't have time for this. Later._

_Finally, we're both off the floor, and John is leaning on both the wall and his cane, and I am holding his hand, pulling him to bed. He lays down, and mumbles to me, "Sorry," and I want to shake him. He is always sorry, and I am always angry. I swallow that down too, and it feels unsettled in my stomach, mixing with the tears from earlier._

_"Just sleep, John. I'll be in the living room if you need me," I say, kissing his forehead, and I have to get out of the room suddenly, immediately. I am shaking now with fury, not with weakness, and I pick up Billy the skull when I make it to the living room, and throw him has hard as I can against the wall. I watch him shatter into a million pieces, tiny jagged edges of bone littering the carpet. Part of me wishes the bone belonged to me, and that's when I realize this is too much. This is all too much, far more than I can handle, and if John were here, he would tell me he doesn't think I should be alone right now. Of course, he wouldn't tell me that with words, but he would sit with me; he would stay up far later than he should, even if he was working the next morning, reading a book or watching crap telly while I paced or rambled or played my violin. He would make sure I wasn't alone._

_But John is not here, John is sleeping. John is broken, and it frightens me to my core. So, I do what John would have me do._

_I pick up my phone, cursing my stupid, trembling fingers, and manage Lestrade's number on the third try. He picks up halfway through the second ring; must have already had his phone in his hand._

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Greg," I say, and my voice is wrecked. I've used his first name. I know he's out the door before I even ask him to come._

_"Sherlock! What's wrong? Are you hurt?"_

_"I... no. I'm not..." I start, but I'm stumbling over my words because I'm not injured, but I ache everywhere and I feel like my sternum is going to rip apart. I am hurting, but I am not hurt. It's making me sound stupid, which annoys me, but worries him. "Can you, come over, to Baker Street? I just..."  trail off, and suddenly I don't know why I've called. I'm an idiot. I don't know what to say. "I broke Billy," I settle for, and then I realize he has no idea who Billy is, so I amend it to "the skull, Billy the skull." I realize that doesn't exactly make me sound any less unstable, but I don't know if continuing will help the situation, so I don't. I can hear him starting his car. He still hasn't said anything, which is odd, so I find myself saying, "the skull I used to talk to, before John," and I instantly regret it. I sound completely insane, which doesn't usually bother me, but I have to keep in mind that I'm talking to someone who can put me on a 72-hour psychiatric hold, and has before._

_Lestrade, God bless him, takes it all in stride, as usual. "The skull that's on your fireplace mantel? Didn't know he had a name. You never introduced us, you know."_

_"Well, he's dead," I answer, and I'm not sure if I mean because Billy was a skull or because he's lying in pieces on my living room floor. My voice sounds distant to me, and I realize I'm sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. I don't remember sitting down._ _Lestrade stays on the phone for the entire twenty minute ride to the flat, but we don't talk much. I think he's worried I'm going to scurry off to my stash and shoot up if he hangs up on me before he gets here. He might be right, so I stay on the line as well._

_Lestrade walks right in to the flat; I'd forgotten he still has a key. He sits on the ground in front of me, takes in my disheveled appearance, and places his hand on my knee. His touch steadies me, slightly. My hands are still shaking._

_"It's alright, to need help with this, Sherlock. It's a lot."_

_I nod, swallowing more tears and anger and shame before speaking. "You know they found him?"_

_"Yeah. I've been keeping an eye on the case." Right, I think, he wouldn't have burdened me with keeping him informed. Not on top of everything else. Especially not when he works at the Yard and has access to everything, anyway._

_"The defense lawyer is a cretin," I say, and he nods in agreement._

_"Yeah, they tend to be. How are you holding up?" he asks, and what hits me is that he's asking after me, not after John. I don't know how to answer. I'm not holding up; neither of us is holding up. I stare at him, but I can't find words. I just shake my head. "That's alright, mate. I'm glad you called. That was good," and I'm equal parts annoyed that he's trying to reassure me and relieved that I've done something right for once. I clench my hands into fists to try and stop the shaking, but that only makes it worse. Lestrade reaches out and places his hands over mine, wrapping my fists tightly, forcing them to still because he knows that's what I'm trying to do. He holds my fists until I'm no longer trembling, holding my eye contact too. "I'll make some tea?" he says, standing, once I don't look like I'm going to shake apart. I nod, but I stay on the floor._

_He comes back with the tea, sitting my mug on the ground in front of me. It's John's RAMC mug. He sees the way I look at it, and switches our cups before he drinks anything out of his. For the hundredth time today, I'm relieved Lestrade knows me as well as he does. It's like having a brother that isn't emotionally constipated. I open my mouth to say something, I'm not sure what, when John moans from the bedroom. He's having a nightmare, and I jump up to go to him, but Lestrade puts his hand on my shoulder, and says "It's alright, I've got it." I look at him, surprised, so he explains, "when you jumped off of Bart's, I stayed here for a little while with him. He used to wake up screaming your name. I can deal with nightmares. And you need a break." Straightforward, simple, honest. It still feels like a punch to the gut, so I let Lestrade walk me over to the sofa before he goes to John. I know I hurt him, when I left, but I hate thinking about it. I'll never forgive myself, even though I know I'd do it again if I was in the same position. It makes me wonder if I'm good for him; if I'm willing to break him before I'm willing to live in a world where he is not. What does that say about me? What does that say about us?_

_Lestrade comes back to me twenty minutes later, a damp spot on the shoulder of his shirt. I feel worthless, useless. He sees my line of sight, but says "Oh, you too?" good-naturedly, before sitting with me and wrapping me into a warm, strong hug. I didn't realize I'd been crying, until my tears are pressed against my face by his neck. Suddenly I'm falling apart, my chest wracked with great, heaving sobs, and I can barely breathe. I'm shaking again, the fibers of my muscles thrumming with pain and anxiety, and I'm overwhelmed by all of it, all at once. I feel like I'm crumbling under the weight of holding John together, and I'm appalled by the sounds coming from me. I'm sure I haven't bawled like this since I was a child. Lestrade sits with me, solid and steady, while I break into nearly as many pieces as Billy. When I've quieted enough that I can make out what he's saying, I realize that he's telling me, "That's right, get it out. That's it."_

_He's encouraging this? Human behavior is so strange._

_But, it feels like he's right, so I choke out everything I've been holding down for the past week. I'm talking, suddenly, and I have no control over what I'm saying._

_"They were horrible- a-and cruel, t-those fucking- lawyers, and I hate all of them, I hate all of this- I- and John is- oh, God, oh, God, John. John. He's- I- John. Oh my God, John-" I'm saying, and then my chest is caving in and I hear a ugly, keening noise rip through my trachea. I have no words for what John is going through, and no words for how it is breaking me to watch him suffer. The sound coming out of my chest curves my spine forward, bends me in half, feels like it will break my bones, and Lestrade has to shift our weight to keep me on the sofa. I can't get any air in, because it's all trying to push out at once, and I feel like I'm going to be sick or pass out, but can't decide which. My hands are in my hair, pulling it, and Lestrade tugs them free, folding them down between us so I can't hurt myself, keeping me from pulling my scalp off. I've worked myself into a right state, but I have absolutely no control, and it reminds me of him holding me during a fever the last time I was withdrawing. I'm certainly shaking more now than I was then._

_"You've got to breathe, mate. Inhale. C'mon," he's saying, trying to help me sit up, but my muscles are all contracted, intent on keeping me doubled over, and I'm still choking out every bit of air from my lungs. Something finally releases in me, and I can relax enough to suck in a lungful of air, and then another, before I go back to sobbing. Lestrade just pulls me tighter against his chest, and doesn't say anything else. He's seen me drugged up to my gills, lying in gutters, caught me doing things for drug money that I'll never admit to. He's carried me through withdrawal and then a relapse. He's seen me battered and bruised from Moriarty's games, fresh from Serbia, when I was still jumping at every shadow and bump in the night. But he has never seen me like this. The fact that he's silent speaks volumes about the state I'm in. When I'm finally under control, I try to apologize, embarrassed by my outburst and sorry for unsettling him._

_"I'm sor-"_

_"No," he says, his voice firm, and I remember how much I hate it when John is sorry. So, instead, I back up slightly to free my arms, and then wrap them around him, embracing him almost as tightly as he's been holding me for God only knows how long._

_We sit like that for a long time, long after my tears have dried in salty lines across my face and blotches on his shirt. It makes me wonder exactly when it was that Greg Lestrade switched from being my friend to being my family. Probably, one of the times I was lying in a gutter and too high to notice. I'm as thankful as I am ashamed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, so much, for reading and commenting. I know I say this every time, but, I cant express it enough. This is a deeply personal story for me, and I can't begin to explain how much it lifts my heart that you are reading and that it is as well-received as it is.
> 
> Keep talking to me. It's wonderful. You're wonderful.
> 
> Much love to you all. Next update may not be for a week or so, as I've let myself get behind with my schoolwork in favor of this story. Until then. 
> 
> <3


	11. Scrambled Eggs and Strong Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tid bit of domestic Lestrade taking care of the boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too profound, this chapter. But everybody needs someone like Lestrade, to bring a little bit of normalcy back to life after it's been turned upside-down.
> 
> Also, eggs are delicious.

John woke to the smell of scrambled eggs and strong coffee. It was a smell he hadn't really thought of since the days right after Sherlock's faked death, while Greg had stayed at the flat, cooking food that neither of them wanted to eat. It was the smell of Greg Lestrade dealing with crisis, in the kitchen. John eased himself out of bed, taking care to pick up his cane from the floor next to the bed. 

He entered the kitchen to find Greg, as he suspected, standing at the stove and cooking what looked like breakfast for three, with the meager supplies he found in the kitchen. 

"'Morning, Greg. Eggs?" 

"Yeah, and two pieces of toast. You and Sherlock can fight over them. You guys don't have anything else that's edible," Greg said, shaking his head bemusedly. "Some things never change."

"Well, you know, Mrs. Hudson's been away to see her sister, and it's usually me or her that does the shopping..."

"If you make me a list, I can go out later and pick some things up."

"Greg, you don't-"

"It's fine, John. Sherlock actually asked for help for once. Let me help."

"Yeah. Yeah, alright. Thanks, for last night too. I uh... I could hear him. Is he alright?"

Greg turned from the stove to face John, turning off the burner as he did so. "He's... he'll be okay. It's been a lot for both of you, but I think you'll both be okay. He slept on the sofa, last night. Go tell him breakfast's ready."

"Okay. Thanks, Greg."

"It's fine, go wake sleeping beauty." Greg answered, making John chuckle slightly before he rounded the corner to the living room. Sherlock looked like he had fallen asleep while curled into his customary sulk position, but had stretched out during the night. His head was slung over one arm of the sofa and his ankles dangled over the other, one arm draped across his chest and his other arm dangling off the side. The knuckles of his hand were just barely grazing the carpet, and his face looked shockingly young without the usual lines pressed into his forehead from thinking. The sight made John smile.

John sat down on the coffee table, near the end of the couch where Sherlock's head was, and ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls slightly. The man wrinkled his nose, twitching slightly but not waking at the touch.

"Wake up love, Greg made eggs for breakfast."

"Mmph."

"Sherlock, love," John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hairline. "Wake up. Come eat with us."

"Jooooohn," Sherlock said cracking his eyes open slightly and raising his lips up to meet John's. 

Greg cleared his voice from the doorway to the kitchen, making Sherlock's eyes fly open the rest of the way.

"Lestrade! What are you doing here, still?" Sherlock asked, indignant at the fact that he had been kissing John in front of an audience, without his knowledge.

"Yeah, yeah, good morning to you too, sunshine. Your breakfast is getting cold. Hurry it up," Greg said, laughing quietly while walking back in to the kitchen.  

John didn't realize he was laughing too, until he felt Sherlock's fingertip tracing the side of his lips. 

"Christ, John, it's been so long since I've heard you laugh," Sherlock said, not anticipating how entirely depressing the statement would sound. John took Sherlock's hand in his own and kissed his knuckles before standing and pulling Sherlock to his feet as well, leaning heavily on his cane. 

"You're going to eat breakfast?" Sherlock asked then, thoroughly surprised to even see John out of bed at this hour.

"Yeah. I'll have a little, at least. I think it's about time I re-join the world of the living. Or at least try to, some," John said, as he looped his arm through Sherlock's proffered one and they made their way to the kitchen.

"Yes. Good... that's. That's relieving."

John patted Sherlock on the elbow as they took their seats at the table, where Greg was already halfway through his meal.

"Eggs are cold," he said in-between bites. "Warned you."

John was able to get through about a quarter of his plate before he gave up, several minutes after both Sherlock and Greg had finished. The levity of the morning was quickly wearing off and the dread he felt about the trial filled his stomach like cement. He pushed his plate away, resting his elbows on the table and his forehead in his hands. Beside him, he felt Sherlock place his forearm on the table and rest is head on it, his other hand lightly pressed to the middle of John's back. He wanted to apologize for wearing Sherlock so thin, but he knew the man was getting tired of his apologies, so he bit the words back before they came out. 

"What's wrong, mate? I mean, obviously everything is wrong. But right now, what is it? Anything you can put your finger on?" Greg asked, hoping he wasn't pushing too hard.

"Erm, I... I don't know, really."

"What were you thinking about, just now?"

"The trial. I'm going to have to testify, and they're going to try to make me out to be a liar. It's hard enough to talk about it with people who are supportive, but I'm going to have to discuss it in front of people to  _convince them_. Christ, Greg," John finished, though he was talking to the table more so than to Greg.

"Well... I think we have two options here. If you want to talk about it, we can talk about it, if you think that'll help. If you want to get your mind off of it, we can do that instead. But we're not going to let you sit in your head all day like you've been doing, because it's not healthy."

"Mm, yeah. You're probably right, there. I don't know what I'd say about it all if I were to talk about it. And I have a therapist for that."

"Right, well," Greg said, looking from Sherlock's motionless head on the table to John's slight tremor in his left hand. "How about you get dressed and come to Tesco with me, and we'll get some groceries, yeah?"

"Yeah, that would probably be good," John said, nodding.  

"And Sherlock," Greg continued, "you look like shit, so go lay down and don't get up until John and I get back." Sherlock started to grumble but Greg cut him off. "No arguments, or I'll call Mycroft and tell him you've started smoking again."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow to that, but stayed silent. After last night, he supposed he could at least take some of the man's advice, especially if he was able to convince John to get dressed and leave the flat. He was suddenly very thankful Greg hadn't left after he'd fallen asleep last night despite the accidental voyeurism of the morning. His friend was proving to be exactly what both he and John needed. 

John had left to shower, and Sherlock was about to heed Greg's orders and lay down in his bedroom, but instead he turned to Greg, who was washing the pan he'd used to cook breakfast. He put his hand on Greg's shoulder, squeezing it slightly, surprised to find how large his hand was compared to the DI that many found to be a formidable opponent. The man's presence seemed to fill more space than his actual body did, at times.

"Lestrade. Thank you."

Greg put down the pan and wiped his hands on his jeans, turned around and wrapped Sherlock into a hug, much like he had the night before. 

"It's no problem, Sherlock. You know that. Now go get some rest; I can hold down the fort for a few hours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you all for reading, as usual. Leave me comments; I love to hear from you.
> 
> I'll keep writing, but October is a particularly trying month for me, so it may be longer between chapters. It'll pick up again once this godforsaken month is over. Maybe once a week-ish, until November. 
> 
> I've literally got no plan for where this is going, other than a very abstract idea in the back of my head. I have a vague idea of what is going to happen in the rest of the story, but I've no clue how long it's going to be when all is said and done. Hopefully not too terribly drawn out, but also not so short that it's frustrating. We'll see. 
> 
> Until next time, dear readers.


	12. Wound Tight Like a Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet John's therapist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, beautiful readers, for reading.

John leaned forward in his chair, trying not to think of an answer to the question his therapist had just asked him.  _What's worrying you about the trial, specifically?_

"Well, besides the fact that it's in three days?" he asked, wondering where she could be going with this.

"You're becoming more stressed and anxious as it approaches. You seem to have a lot of mixed emotions. What are you feeling about it?"

John sat back again, fidgeting nervously. "Well, you're my psychologist, shouldn't you be the one figuring that out for me?"

"I think it would be beneficial to you if you'd try to articulate it on your own. And then we can try to work through what you're unsure about. It's okay not to know precisely how you feel. But, John, I think you're overwhelming yourself by trying to feel all of this at once. You're having normal reactions, but you can't react to everything at the same time. Why don't we try to deconstruct some of the things you're dealing with, and make them separate. It won't seem quite so insurmountable, then. Make sense?" Dr. Rosall asked, maintaining her relaxed posture in the chair adjacent to John's, her ankles crossed and notebook sitting on the side table, next to a cup of tea. 

She was plain, as far as looks went, and was the kind of woman who took the time to dress professionally, but not the time to do anything more to her hair than pull it up in a bun that was used for storing writing utensils. Her hair was a dull brown, with a few streaks of white, and she wore black-rimmed glasses that highlighted her dark eyes and eyelashes. Her fingernails were trimmed and neat, but never painted, and she could go from looking sharply put-together in her pant-suits and heels to startlingly casual with just a minute change in her posture. She was intelligent and clinically astute, and that put him at ease. 

"Yeah. That sounds fine," he said, but didn't continue. She waited for a moment, in case he had planned to say more, before prompting him.

"John? You've got to start somewhere. You look nervous to me; your left hand is shaking. Are you nervous?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm nervous," John confirmed, shoving his offending hand between the arm of the chair and his left thigh.

"What about?"

"Have you even been here for the session? The trial. I'm nervous about the trial. It's not rocket science."

"What about the trial?"

"What about...? Really."

"John. Avoidance," she said, raising her eyebrows at him over the frames of her glasses. John sighed at her.

"I'm nervous about... seeing him. About seeing him again, in person. He's... he'll be right there," John said, sucking in a rather large breath at the end of his sentence, and blowing it out through his mouth.

"There'll be police, and plenty of other people around. He won't be able to hurt you. Is that what's worrying you?"

"I know he won't hurt me, not there in a room full of people. That's absurd."

"It's normal to need some reassurance that-"

"Shut up."

"That's not what you pay me for. You're about to go through something that's emotionally strenuous, John. I think you'll be better equipped to cope if you understand why you're feeling what you feel. But I can't help you understand if you don't  _tell me_ how you feel."

John nodded, tight and curt, and folded his hands together so that his knuckles turned white. He rested his clasped hands on his tensed knees. His toes curled in his shoes. He was wound tight like a spring, and felt dangerously close to flying apart.

"I'm not  _nervous_. I'm scared. I'm... I'm absolutely terrified," he said, addressing his hands in a quiet, carefully controlled voice.

Dr. Rosall leaned forward slightly, tucking her legs to the side against the chair, and moving her notebook to sit in her lap. She nodded, encouragingly.

"Do you know what you're scared about?"

"Uhm, hm. I'm going to see him, looking normal. In a suit, or something. It's supposed to be all... normal. He has a family, I s'pose his wife might even show up, I don't know. And there he'll be, sitting there, like we're sitting here. That doesn't sound scary at all. But it is. Him, being normal. Sitting there, like a normal person. That scares me."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing?" She asked, noting something on her pad of paper.

"Yes. Yes, exactly. But also, not just that, but. I don't know how to... It's complicated. This is complicated and I don't talk about feelings like this. I have no idea how to explain it."

"Take your time."

John nodded, swallowing his anxiety along with his saliva. "In my head, he's this monster. This horrible, awful monster, that couldn't possibly function in society. But I'm going to see him, in court. And he's just... he's a monster. But he'll... it's... he's going to be  _right there_ , and he's not going to be a  _monster_. He's  _just a man_. He's going to sit there and just be a man. A construction worker. A husband. A  _father_ , Christ.  _Children_." _  
_

"Sometimes it can be difficult to confront the idea that an attacker can have a life outside of the trauma they caused you. And I'm also hearing that you're frightened by the fact that he seems like an average civilian, but was capable of hurting you in the way he did, and that he may have hurt others. Am I right?"

"Yeah, of course. He's so  _normal_. How can a rapist seem so normal?"

"He's a man, John. Just a man. Not all rapists are sociopaths; they're capable of love. That's a reality. We talked about some of the men you served in Afghanistan with, a few weeks ago," she said, without looking at her notes, John noticed. She remembered this bit. "One of them was raped by another from the group. You treated the victim, but you also knew the rapist very well. He had a wife at home, and he was your friend before that incident, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," John confirmed, grimacing at the memory. He'd have rather dealt with IEDs than that situation.

"People can seem 'normal' and still be very cruel, or be unstable. Or, more commonly, both, and dangerous. You know this, John. You've known this since long before you were deployed. People are capable of horrific things. Seemingly average people. But they're just  _people_. He's just a man. He's not a wild inhuman being from your nightmares; he's just a man, and he doesn't have any power over you now."

"He has  _all the power_. He  _destroyed_ me," John said, still but for his damned left hand. 

"He hurt you. But you _are_ healing."

"I'm a completely different person. I barely recognize myself," he said, barely whispering now. 

"Everything in life changes us, John. Rape is no exception. The war changed you as well. But your friends have changed you, your education has changed you, your family has changed you. We're all a compilation of our experiences in life. This is a part of you now, and you didn't ask for it, but it is. But it isn't the only part of you. Everything else is still there. Being raped didn't take away everything you were before your attack. But sometimes, recovery can push those things to the sidelines for a while. And that's okay. That's normal. But it doesn't mean you're not who you've always been."

John nodded, trying to wrap his head around the conversation.  _Three days_.

"You're right, obviously. And this helps. But I'm done," he said, white-knuckling the arm of the chair with his right hand and staring at the trembling fingers on his left. "For today. I'm tired."

"I'd rather you not leave just yet, John," she said, and then after catching his questioning glare, continued. "You're pale, tense, and your hand is still shaking a bit. You've just started sweating, and you're very nearly hyperventilating. You're very narrowly avoiding a panic attack, and I think going outside might tip the scales away from your favor." She bent forward, reaching under her chair to produce a heavy, round, memory-foam pillow in a soft eggshell color. She took the few steps forward to John's chair and deposited the pillow in his lap with a soft thump, before she squatted near the side of his chair so as not to loom over him.

"Squeeze it. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Focus on the way my office smells, on the weight of the pillow. If it's not better in a few minutes, I'm going to ask you to take one of your pills. I'm right here. You're safe," she said, quickly walking him through the basic grounding techniques he'd been using since he started therapy.  

Several minutes passed, with John struggling to take deep breaths, and Dr. Rosall walking him through it, reminding him of coping mechanisms she'd taught him. He finally felt like he was getting himself under control, but was debating whether or not he should risk traveling home by himself. He was still on edge, even if he wasn't shaking anymore.

"Are you feeling more calm now, John?"

"Better. But, erm, I think I'll text Sherlock. To come get me."

"I think that's a wise decision, John," she replied, standing up. She gathered her notebook and placed it on her desk, while John pulled out his phone and sent the text. After a few moments, she turned back to him and said, "You know, you're doing very well. I know it's discouraging to panic during a session. It doesn't mean you're not making progress."

John scrubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustion showing through. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I mean, you keep saying so, and Sherlock. I do feel a bit better about seeing the bastard, though, now."

"You're going to get through this. You have the coping skills and you have a support network, so make sure you use them. It's going to be over, soon. Please call me, if you need anything. That's why I'm here," she said, smiling kindly at him from her desk, the hint of crow's feet crinkling at the edges of her warm eyes.

John nodded at her, and settled back with his eyes closed and head resting against the back of his chair, to wait for Sherlock. He felt conflicted still, but less afraid and wary than he had that morning. Despite this, a sickening feeling of dread still surged through his veins and twisted his stomach, making his limbs feel heavy.  _Three days_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, guys. I re-read all the chapters and all THE TYPOS.  
> GOD HELP ME, THE TYPOS.
> 
> I'll fix them. Eventually. It's abysmal.
> 
> Anyhoo, please leave me comments, as per my usual begging. Love you all, wonderful readers.


	13. A Little of Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, quickie chapter. Sherlock and John text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an itsy-bitsy chapter. Didn't have a lot of time, but wanted to fit it in.

**I need you to come get me.**

**Now? -SH**

**Preferably, yes. My session's over.**

**That's early. On my way. Alright? -SH**

**Could be better, have been worse.**

**That bad? -SH**

**Could we not have this discussion over text?**

**You texted me first. Could have called, so must not want to be overheard. Either still in her office or in the waiting room now. If I call, you'll ignore it and text me to say you don't want to talk over the phone. -SH**

**So yes, we're having "this discussion" over text. But we can talk about any number of things. -SH**

**John? -SH**

**You're deducing me through my texts now? Brilliant.**

**Are you being sarcastic or serious? I'm not that good without seeing your face. -SH**

**A little of both.**

**I see. Just trying to keep you occupied on my way. -SH**

**Trying to keep me occupied, or you occupied?**

**A little of both. ;) -SH**

**Since when do you do emoticons?**

**Molly showed me. I hear they're endearing. -SH**

**Sherlock Holmes, endearing. Never thought I'd see the day.**

**Are you smiling, John? -SH**

**Yes, you nutter.**

**I'm getting good at this. :) -SH**

**Don't get too cocky. I've always been easy for you to read.**

**Wrong. -SH**

**Wrong?**

**That's what I said, isn't it? You're wrong. -SH**

**Is that so? A simpleton like me, hard for Sherlock Holmes to read? That's a little hard to believe.**

**You're complex. -SH**

**I'm complex? How is that?**

**You're a doctor, and a soldier. You heal and you've killed. You're a walking contradiction, John. Far too much for me to bother explaining over text. -SH**

**I feel more like a walking disaster than a walking contradiction, most days.**

**You're not a disaster. This situation is, though. I'm almost there. -SH**

**It really is, Sherlock. This is a mess.**

**Yes. Unfortunate side-effect of life. Messiness. -SH**

**Fortunate side-effect of murder, though. Makes my job easier. -SH**

**Speaking of messiness, let's not talk about the kitchen. I can fix it. -SH**

**Christ, what have you done now, you berk?**

**It's fine. Minor chemical spill. Well-contained. -SH**

**Dare I ask what chemical?**

**Best not. -SH**

**You know Mrs. Hudson is supposed to be coming home this afternoon.**

**I may need to arrange for an extra herbal soother. -SH**

**Sherlock! You are not drugging Mrs. Hudson!**

**She drugs herself, I just encourage it. -SH**

**I don't know what to do with you.**

**I'd suggest coming down and getting into the cab with me. Just pulled up. -SH**

**Ta, love.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading. Love you all. <3


	14. Into Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-trial nerves are in abundance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, lovely readers, for hanging in with me during that long hiatus of nearly two months. It's been rough, but also splendid, and things are looking up for me in general now. Updates hopefully slightly more frequently throughout the next couple of weeks, before the semester starts again.
> 
> I was just going to include this chapter at the beginning of the next chapter, along with the beginning of the trial, but I thought you all deserved something for waiting so patiently for me to update. So, here you go.

John closed his eyes, breathing out steadily through pursed lips, while Sherlock, already dressed, dug around in the closet for John's suit. 

"Honestly, John, if I'd known all you had was  _this_ thing, I could have had Mycroft's tailor-" Sherlock said, his words a rush of nervous energy, while he spun around to face John, offending suit in hand. He broke off his tirade on John's fashion sensibilities for a moment while he took in the man's body language: white knuckling the edge of the mattress, shoulders ram-rod straight and tense, clearly exerting force on himself to maintain a steady respiration rhythm. Abandoning the pretense of normality he had been going for, Sherlock ventured a tentative, "John? Alright?"

"Hm. Clearly," was John's one-and-a-half word reply. He wasn't being purposefully curt, but it came out that way.

"I still think you need to take your medication," Sherlock said, taking a risk by approaching the topic again.

"We discussed that, Sherlock. I'm not going to court doped up to my gills," John replied, his worry mixing in with stubborn frustration at both himself and Sherlock. He refused to let his voice shake, even if he felt like every cell in his body was vibrating.

"Take half a tablet, then? You need something. Hell, even a shot of whiskey would be better than nothing at this point. I don't know if I can get you dressed, that tense," Sherlock countered, working hard to keep his voice from betraying too much of his frustration.  _John is a doctor, for Christ's sake. You'd think he could be logical about the treatment of his own anxiety._

"I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself."

"Says the man who's been sitting in his pants, staring at the closet, for the better part of an hour."  _Fine, John. If I'm going to have to bully you into taking care of yourself, so be it._  Thinking better of his approach, however, he added, "I'm trying to help, you know. If you didn't need help, you'd be dressed by now. And you wouldn't be clenching every muscle in your upper body to keep from shaking."

Half a minute ticked by, and Sherlock was beginning to think they had reached a stalemate, before John answered him, his voice resigned and tired despite the early hour. "Fine. Half a tab. And don't think about grinding up the other half in my coffee. I can swallow it dry."

"John, I'm not going to drug you. Put on the suit. I'll go grab a mug."

"I'll swallow it dry, Sherlock. It's not you, sorry, it's just that there's no way I'll be able to keep anything down. I didn't mean to-"

Sherlock stepped closer to John, depositing the suit on the bed beside him. He briefly cupped the back of John's head, and bent down to press a soft kiss into his hair, trying to impart some sense of reassurance that he was unable to manage with words. 

"I know, love. It's fine. Put this on. I'll be in the kitchen, drinking your coffee."

\---

By the time they made it to the car- not a cab today, no, Mycroft had made it clear that there would be transportation provided, even if John wanted to completely bar him from meddling- the anxiety that previously had just been a thrum of energy through John's limbs had now taken a physical residence in his chest. He felt as if there were cement bricks resting on his sternum and barbed wire wrapped around his ribcage. Although a whole tablet of his anxiety medication will practically knock him out, apparently half a tab does virtually nothing.  _Or maybe_ , he thinks,  _I'm just so keyed up it can't make a difference._

Sherlock reached a hand across the seat, brushing the back of John's with his fingers, only lightly before being batted away with a frustrated huff of breath from John. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, to which John replied in a deathly calm voice.

"It is taking everything in me not to completely break down in a panic right now. If you touch me, I'm going to fall apart. Please don't."

"Okay. I'm here, though. I love you."

"Okay, I just-" John audibly swallowed, and moved his hands from where they were clenched together in his lap to grip his knees. "I love you, too. Don't talk though, either, because apparently-" his voice broke then, just barely. After a second he mastered himself again. "I love you, and I need you here, but just... don't. Don't. Just be here. Just, don't... please, stay. I'm not making sense." On that last note, he shook his head shamefully to himself. He simultaneously felt the need to curl up in Sherlock's arms and the desire to be as far away from him as possible. He wanted to be comforted, but at the same time, he needed to be alone. 

Sherlock tapped his finger on the seat next to him to get John to look at him, and once he had John's attention he nodded his head in understanding, offering him a tight, thin-lipped smile.  _I'm right here, John. I'm staying. We'll be okay._

John nodded minutely back, before straightening his posture once again and resuming his stare into the headrest in front of him. Sherlock slid his hand closer to John's, without quite touching. John could feel his warmth close by without also feeling as if that same warmth might shatter the very thin glass of his facade of strength. They rode the rest of the way in silence, John resolutely holding himself together on the inside, and Sherlock poised to hold him together from the outside, should that be necessary. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading.
> 
> Until next time (which should be soon).
> 
> <3


	15. The Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's trial begins, and does not go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is the chapter I've been dreading writing since I first started this fic.
> 
> It's not gonna be pretty.

There were certain expectations that John had developed before the trial even started. He expected it would be difficult to sit in the same room as his rapist without panicking, but he thought he would manage well enough. He expected that the barrister was going to try to make him out to be a liar. He expected that the goal of the defense would be to poke holes in his story, make him stumble over small details to make him seem unreliable or untrustworthy, and then fill those holes with their lies. 

He wasn't very far off the mark.

He felt light-headed, glancing between the man questioning him, his rapist, and the jury. His instinct to make himself appear as strong as possible in the face of the man who hurt him- military posture, stony expression- was fighting with the tremor in his hand and rapid heart rate.  _Do I try to look invincible in front of this monster, or do I show the jury just how broken I really am? How much of this is a front, and how much is a defense mechanism?_

"Dr. Watson, did you hear me?"

"...no."

"I'll repeat the question. We've established a timeline of events on the evening of the alleged assault..."

John felt like part of his mind was following the questioning, while the rest of him was going offline. He answered question after question, inquiries and answers blurring together in his memory.  _Am I compartmentalizing, or dissociating? Do I need to ask for a break? Do I have the strength to start this up again, if I do take a break? Best to just get it over with. Finish it. Get out of this room._

Bits and pieces of the proceedings stuck in his mind, playing on a loop. 

_"What's your profession, Dr. Watson?"_

_"Medicine, obviously. Family practice."_

_"Are you a veteran as well? Did you serve in Afghanistan recently?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Did you experience much hand-to-hand combat while in Afghanistan?"_

_"At times. Yes."_

_"I don't think it would be too big of a jump to say, considering your profession and veteran status, that you're an intelligent man who knows how to defend himself well. Would that be an apt description?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Were you aware that the defendant has no training in combat or defense, unlike yourself?"_

_"I was not."_

_"Does it seem strange to you, that an untrained man would be able to overpower an intelligent, trained soldier?"_

_"There were two of them, you know."_

_"Yes, you've discussed that. You maintain that two untrained civilians, the  defendant  included, overpowered you, despite your experience and training?"_

_"Are you trying to imply that I should have been able to fight them off, because I'm a war veteran?"_

_"I'm simply making sure the jury has all the facts, Dr. Watson. Could you please answer the question? Do you maintain that two untrained civilians overpowered you, despite your experience and training?"_

_"I do."_

_"While you were in Afghanistan, were you ever in a situation where you had to participate in hand-to-hand combat against more than one adversary?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Were you able to defend yourself well, in those situations? Have you fought off two or more opponents on any occasion?"_

_"Yes, I have."_

_"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Now, I want to..."_

John's memory faded out halfway through that particular sentence. The instant replay picked up again several minutes later.

_"You maintain that the defendant forced himself on you? That the intercourse was not consensual?"_

_"Correct. I maintain that the defendant_ raped _me."_ _  
_

_"Are you aware that while the defendant agrees that the intercourse was violent, he maintains that he was unaware that you did not want to participate?"_

_"I'm aware that the defendant wants to convince the jury that he had no clue he was raping a random bloke in a dark alley, yeah."_

_"Dr. Watson, if you could refrain from extrapolating further meaning from my questions, it would be appreciated by the court. Could you re-phrase that answer?"_

_"I'm aware of what the defendant claims. Yes."_

_"Did you give any indication to the defendant, at the time of the alleged assault, that you did not want to participate in sexual activities?"_

_"I tried to fight him back, until they zip-tied my wrists together and tore multiple ligaments and tendons in my ankles."_

_"Are you aware that the defendant has claimed that he believed this attempt to fight was an act meant to 'turn him on'?"_

_"I'm aware."_

_"Did you give the defendant any verbal indication that his presence was unwelcome?"_

_"No, I did not."_

_"To be clear, Dr. Watson, I am hearing that you did not, in fact, verbally indicate to the defendant that you were not interested in sexual activities, at any time before, during, or after the alleged assault. Is this correct?"_

_"I was held at gunpoint, what the Hell was I supposed to do?! Ask them politely to leave?"_

_"Answer the question, please, Dr. Watson."_

_"No, I gave no verbal indication that I was not interested in being raped at gunpoint. I was kind of busy trying not to get shot."_

At that point, John's own legal council had called for a short break in the proceedings, none of which John finds he can remember. He thought that he would eventually begin to crumble under the pressure, but instead he starts feeling numb and detached. When he returns for the rest of his questioning, he knows his hands are shaking when he looks at them, but he can't feel the tremor or the sweat gathering on the collar of his shirt. 

The rest of the questions fall along the same lines, so he doesn't bother thinking about them. His mind goes on autopilot. He tells his version (the true version) of what happened, and he answers the redundant questions, and he swallows down every emotion he begins to feel throughout the entire ordeal.

Sherlock, watching from the back of the room, could pinpoint the moment John put up his walls. Even from across the room, Sherlock could see the resilient light in John's eyes dull slightly. He couldn't think about the situation without his emotions getting the better of him, so he resigned himself to record the trial and go over it later. Sherlock decided, he would listen, record, and process it all later, in the privacy of their own home, after that bastard was behind bars.

He listened while John detailed what he remembered about the attack, the events seemingly playing in technicolor in his mind's eye.

He listened while the prosecution tore John's account apart, trying to discredit him.

He listened to John breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth.

He listened to the random sounds of a room full of people- coughs, the clearing of throats, over-priced shoes tapping on the floor.

He listened to the jury member that made a disbelieving huff of air when John explained he didn't hear the attackers coming from behind him. He listened to the scoffs coming from the defendant's table, and from the defendant's wife.

He listened to the defense bring up a "problem with the evidence," and he listened to the blood rush past his eardrums with renewed force.

He listened to the words "inadmissible," and "struck from the records," and "adjourned until tomorrow morning."

He listened to the guard that escorted both he and John back into Mycroft's car, and he listened to the press who had finally caught wind of the trial,

"Mr. Holmes, has the Jury reached a decision yet?"

"Dr. Watson, what do you say about the speculation that you have falsely accused this man?"

"Mr. Holmes, why are the arrest records of the defendant unavailable? Why hasn't this crime been reported in the media? Does it have anything to do with your brother?"

"Dr. Watson, do you have any comments on the speculation that your sister's alcoholism is related to sexual abuse? Have you begun drinking as well?"

"Mr. Holmes, do you know if Dr. Watson was targeted by one of your enemies? Could this all be due to your association?"

"Dr. Watson, do you believe this was hate-crime related, considering your relationship status with Mr. Holmes?"

He listened to Mycroft, suddenly present and shouting.

"ENOUGH! That will be quite enough. No comment."

He listened to the silence in the car as the three of them were driven back to Baker Street, back to the dangerous calm at the eye of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this purposefully disjointed and slightly non-linear in order to portray the confusion and dissociation that John and Sherlock are experiencing (and that I experienced during my own trial).
> 
> If you're not sure what's happened, that's fine. All will be explained momentarily.


	16. A Turtleneck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reveals a deduction he made while in court, and Mycroft is given the OK to intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always, my lovely friends.
> 
> Domestic violence is mentioned in this chapter, FYI.

Upon entering the flat, John wordlessly crossed over to the kitchen sink, vomited the scant amount of water Sherlock had convinced him to drink during the brief break just a few hours earlier, straightened back up, squared his shoulders, and then locked himself in the loo. Sherlock and Mycroft heard the shower running just a few seconds after the door closed. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock held up his hand to silence him.

"Mycroft. I'm aware that the defense has found some flaw in the way the rape kit was processed, and that's what's made it inadmissible. What I'm not entirely sure of is why nobody was made aware of this before the trial. I know you had everything checked. What  _the fuck_ is going on?"

"Sherlock, if you remember, both John and yourself asked me  _not_ to check on anything. I was trying to respect his privacy," Mycroft replied, his demeanor slightly less nonchalant than usual. 

"Because respecting his privacy was clearly a  _great DECISION!_ "

"Sherlock, this isn't my fault, but if you want me to help fix it, I'll do what I can. That's why I'm here."

"John won't allow it."

"Why don't we wait to ask  _him_ , Sherlock?"

"Fine."

The wait for John to emerge from the shower was tense, to say the least. Sherlock paced, wringing his hands, while Mycroft leaned against the wall between the kitchen and sitting room. 

When John finally opened the door of the loo, dressed in his pajamas and one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, he walked slowly to the sitting room before heavily falling into his chair.

"John, Mycroft can take care of this," Sherlock said, but John stared through him and didn't answer the question when he spoke.

"Did you see his wife?" John asked, his voice sounding hollow.

"What? Whose-" Sherlock started before Mycroft cut in.

"The rapists' wife," Mycroft said, making Sherlock cringe.

"Christ, Mycroft, could you be a little  _more_ indelicate?"

"I'm sure I could manage, given the opportunity."

" _Shut up._ Both of you. Sherlock, did you  _see_ his _wife_?" _  
_

Sherlock paused, thinking back to the courtroom, trying to determine if he had made any deductions about the man's wife. Coming up blank, he looked at John questioningly.

John sighed, and scrubbed his hands over his face. "His wife was wearing a turtleneck. The left side of her jaw was swollen. And she was wearing more makeup than Harry did in the 80's."

"He beats her. Or, at least, it appears that he beats her?" Sherlock stated, more than asked. 

"Yeah. Yeah, he beats her, of course he beats her, and she won't say a  _fucking thing_ about it, so I'm her one chance. I'm her one chance, Sherlock. Those kids..." John trailed off, not really needing to finish his sentence to get the point across. He shook his head, burying his face back in his hands. Slowly, the numbness that had filled him at the courthouse drained out of him. It was replaced by an ache in his chest for the woman he'd seen that had to live with the man he only saw in his nightmares.

Sherlock perched on the edge of John's chair, with one of his hands resting in middle of John's upper back, between his shoulder blades. 

"John," Mycroft started, his voice slightly lower "You're probably right. But without the rape kit as evidence, there's not a very high chance of this man getting what he deserves. There is an extremely low likelihood of this turning out in your favor unless you allow me to intervene. It would be absolutely no trouble."

John swallowed the lump in his throat before answering. "I don't care what happens to that bastard, Mycroft. Do whatever you want. Just get him away from his wife and those kids."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be revised heavily. I just got my wisdom teeth out, and I'm on painkillers. So be gentle with me in the comments.
> 
> I love you for reading. You're all great.


	17. Better Late than Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball drops. And everything goes to hell in a handbasket, just like it does in real life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning is horrible. Keep going, though. It gets better.

In the end, John's rapist was acquitted. Even Mycroft, apparently, needs more than 24 hours notice to make miracles happen, connections or not. 

John doesn't remember exactly what was said, when all was said and done. He remembers sitting straight, ever the soldier. He remembers his ears ringing, a low, hollow tone. He remembers his hands tingling. He remembers forgetting exactly where to put his legs to stand properly; Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, hauling him up and out of the room. He remembers Mycroft shouting something at the press, again, but they seemed less mollified by him than they were the day before. 

 _This is like being shot_ , he thinks. The thought rattled around in his head, pushing everything else to the side.  _This is like being shot, except this time I'm just not bleeding to death._

John doesn't remember walking to the car, the door opening, getting in. He doesn't remember Mycroft and Sherlock climbing in behind him. He blinked, and suddenly found himself there, Sherlock's arm still gripping his shoulders, as if he might float away. Turning, John pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder. He had no energy to cry, or panic, or shout about the indignity of it all; no energy to return Sherlock's embrace; no energy to string a coherent sentence together. He simply pressed himself into Sherlock's side, breathed in the scent of him, and waited for reality to feel real again. He felt like something was crushing his chest, but it didn't matter- he barely had the desire to keep drawing in more air.

"I'm sorry, there was so much paperwork involved, and media scrutiny, it just wasn't possible to-"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Mycroft," Sherlock's voice resonated through John, despite the fact that he was speaking barely above a whisper. "You're not done, yet. You don't get. To be. Done. You will get that bastard arrested on any charge you can manage. You will send him away, or torture him, or kill him. Perhaps all three, I could even offer you some creative ideas. You will keep that poor woman and her children safe. And you will do it all expediently."

"Yes, that's the plan. But I'm not sure how long it's going to-"

"That's not my concern. Just finish him. If your henchmen can't manage it, do your own field work for a change."

"It's not that simple, Sher-"

"I said,  _brother mine_ , Shut. Your. _Fucking_. Mouth."

Surprisingly, Mycroft shut his mouth. John's hand was trembling slightly, but he was still silent. Sherlock pulled him closer, and softly kissed the top of John's head, before resting his cheek there. "I've got you. You're safe," he said, quietly. Sherlock wasn't sure if he imagined the slight nod of John's head, or if he was speaking too softly to be heard at all.

\---

In the end, Mycroft did come through. A week or so after the trial, but better late than never, as they say.

In the end, it was the wife that had him put away for good. The wife, that remembered making eye contact with John during the trial. The wife, that knew immediately, finally, something would have to be done. The wife, that spoke with Anthea, after some careful explaining about "an anonymous tip about suspected domestic violence," and "concerns about the children." The wife, that gathered the courage to rescue herself and her children from a monster. The wife, that took the evidence with her, on her arms, and legs, and neck, to Mycroft's safe house.

It was the wife, who surprised everyone by being stronger than anyone expected she would be, once she was given the resources to do it safely.

It was the wife that signed the transfer papers for the "experimental inmate labor program, promising to be effective." The wife, that could read between the lines of the program description Mycroft gave her. The wife, that knew the stranger she was married to was finally going to get what was coming to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? It got better!
> 
> By the way, this is not over yet, though we are approaching and end-ish area.


	18. Note to Readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a real chapter; it's a note to my readers. I might delete it eventually, or move it to the end/beginning of the fic. You don't actually have to read this, as it's not part of the actual story.
> 
> I would really like it if you read it, though.

I just wanted to say a few things, before I continue on with this work, in light of some things that people have told me in the comments, or on tumblr, and my own experience in writing this piece of fiction.  
  
Firstly, thank you so much for reading. I'm really blown away by the reception you've given this fic. My writing isn't _complete_ shit, but it honestly isn't what I'd consider excellent, and I am extraordinarily flattered by the comments accusing me of writing something beautiful. Thank you, for that.

Thank you, also, for being so honest and open with me. People here at AO3, and on tumblr, have commented or messaged me to thank me for this feeble attempt at shining an honest light on the fallout of sexual assault. People have shared their stories and experiences with me. I am honored to be trusted with those stories. In this fic, I am giving you a piece of my heart (one of the ugliest, most broken pieces, in fact). I feel like many of you have given me a piece of your's in return. I was not expecting this.

I was really, really not expecting any of this. I originally posted this fic on another account, one not associated with my online fandom presence, because I was ashamed. I was ashamed of writing it out- of writing something based loosely off of what I went through. I was ashamed of my own feelings, of Sherlock's feelings in the fic, of John's reaction to stress, of everything that I have been through that I'm now putting these characters through. I was ashamed of what I perceived as my weakness. I was ashamed of _my_ story, which made me ashamed of _this_ story.

You, my dear, lovely, beautiful readers, have shown me that I shouldn't be ashamed. Which is kind of funny, considering how many years I spent in therapy trying to figure this out, and never quite managed it. Ironic, in a way, that a group of strangers has been more bolstering and uplifting than a gaggle of mental health professionals and the cocktails of drugs they threw at me. (Though I don't mean to insinuate that therapy and proper medication is not worthwhile- it is important. Go to therapy. Take your medicine.)

I cannot impress upon you enough, how absolutely stunned I am by your feedback. By your kudos, and your comments, and your bookmarks, and your subscriptions. Last I checked, 220 people are subscribed to this monstrosity. That might not seem like a lot to some of you more "famous" fic authors, but it floors me to think that every time I update this, 220 people get an email. Two hundred and twenty people want to be notified when this fic is updated, so they can read the next chapter. For reference, there were only 300 people in my entire middle school (though that was eons and worlds ago).

I may be in a bit of shock. Someone, fetch me a blanket.

Writing this has been an interesting, although overwhelmingly positive, experience for me. It's been difficult, and frustrating, and draining. But it's been cathartic. It's helped me put words to emotions and reactions I haven't been able to process properly. It's helped me better relate to my loved ones, who go through their own stress, dealing with my PTSD-warped life. It's helped me reach out to other survivors, so we could build each other up.

I've said many times throughout these chapters, in notes and in comments, that this is a deeply personal fic for me. What I went through was not precisely what I've put John through, but John's recovery mirrors my own in many ways. I wasn't approached from behind, or raped in the street, or beaten by strangers and left for dead. I lived through roughly a decade of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse, at the hands of a bastard my mother married shortly after she divorced my father.

Even now, as I type this, I'm afraid. My heart is pounding, and I can feel the buzz of anxiety humming underneath my skin. I started this story shortly before the 5th anniversary of the trial. Now, it has been almost six years since his trial. Almost six years since his acquittal. A large, unreasonable part of me still believes that somehow, someone will link this account to who I am in real life, and he will find it, and sue me for false accusations. Libel. Slander. Because that happens, in real life. Victims, in the United States, are sued for making "false" accusations, when they don't have enough hard evidence to substantiate their claims. Sometimes, even when we do have the evidence.

I am no longer ashamed. But I might always be terrified. The man who hurt me lives and works in the community I live and work in. His acquaintances are my acquaintances. His family used to be my family. I've run into him in convenience stores, getting coffee. Only a small part of me is afraid that he will hurt me again. Mostly, I'm afraid of what might happen if I make a misstep. I can speak publicly about being a survivor, but I cannot use any identifying details. I can't say he was my stepfather. I can't say he lived with me. I can't explain what it is like to survive what I have survived, because anyone who has half a brain could identify him with that information. I cannot tell my story, because according to the jury of his peers, according to the state I live in, according to most of the people I have told- he is an innocent, and I am a liar. I cannot share my story, because I cannot defame an innocent man's character. Legally, my story of survival is a lie. Legally, I would be slandering my rapist by calling him a rapist. I know this, because I asked my lawyer.

My rapist, much like John's rapist in this story, did not go to prison after the trial. Instead, I was put in a metaphorical prison of my own. I have been silenced by the judicial system that I was told would protect me. I have been outed and shamed by the media in my hometown. I have been abandoned by people who I loved. I have been failed by an attorney that promised me I could trust her. This is what happens when you report rape in the US. 

People want to understand why more survivors don't come forward? Why we feel we can't speak freely about our experiences? This is why. Reporting abuse is difficult. It is terrifying. It is expensive. It is dangerous. Every person who reports sexual assault, or domestic abuse, or any other type of mistreatment, puts themselves at risk. It is not an imaginary fear that gets built into us simply as a reaction to trauma- reporting an abuser is a legitimate, serious risk. Our system is broken, and I don't know how to fix it.

Through writing this, John's story has morphed from a simple way for me to use fiction to work through my own trauma, into something akin to a political statement about the repercussions, not only of sexual assault itself, but of dealing with the judicial process as a survivor. It's become a statement about what we go through, after we've come home from the hospital. It's a story of what happens to us behind closed doors, when there's nobody but us and maybe a loved one to help pick up the pieces. This is the story of how we fall apart, after someone tries to tear us apart from inside, and how we glue the bits of ourselves back together.

Sexual assault is shattering. Recovery from abuse like that feels impossible at times. Dealing with the legal system on top of trying to pull yourself back together afterwards- that is too much for some people. I said to a therapist once, "When you think being raped hasn't completely broken you, go talk to a defense attorney. They'll change your mind." I almost didn't survive my rapist's acquittal. It threw me into a hole that I nearly couldn't climb out of.

There has been some talk on tumblr, recently, about the ethics of posting non-con/rape and underage fics. It was more specific to "shota" fics that normalize pedophilia, but general rape fics were included in that, especially the ones that depict graphic scenes of rape. As you well know, the first chapter of this fic graphically depicts an explicit rape scene. I've done my best to tag this fic properly, to add warnings when I can, and to be as explicit as possible about this idea: Nonconsensual sex acts and rape are immoral. They are illegal. They are wrong. They should not be fetishized; they should not be fantasized about. I'm not going to get into this debate, and I will not engage in conversations with rape and pedophilia fetish apologists, as people have tried to do with me on tumblr.

I did not depict John's rape scene in this fic to sensationalize rape; I did not depict it to give people more wanking material; I did not depict it in any way that was meant to make rape appear desirable or sexy. I included the rape scene to show what can go on inside someone's head as they're being assaulted, to highlight the severity of the trauma John experiences, and to give some insight into how difficult it can be to think clearly after experiencing something so emotionally and physically painful.

I also want to make something else as clear as possible: I am in no way implying that it was any fault of the wife of John's rapist that John (or anyone else) was attacked by the rapist in this fic. I am in no way implying that the abused wives of any rapist are at fault for that person raping someone. I have heard many people make the argument, "If the spouse had come forward before this happened, they could have prevented this attack."

Let me be explicit:  **The fault of a rape lies solely in the hands of the rapist.** It is not the victim's fault for not screaming loud enough. It is not the wife's fault for not reporting that he beats her. It is not the child's fault for remaining silent. People who are involved in domestic violence often have no safe way to come forward. Their spouses check their phone history, their internet browsing, their shopping receipts, and their email. Nothing is sacred; nothing is private. For many victims of domestic violence, there is no such thing as "go online to find the location of a shelter when he isn't home," or "call a hotline if you are afraid." Their abusive spouse may not even allow them access to a phone or the internet. They may be isolated from their friends and family. They my not have access to their debit card or cash. They may fear for their lives, or worse, their children's lives. It is often unsafe to attempt to leave an abusive spouse, or financially and logistically challenging. The mentality of "I'll take the devil I know over the devil I don't," is one I know well. Please understand, that in this particular fic, the reason the rapist's wife was able to break free of his cycle of abuse was because she was provided with the safety and resources she needed to do so- something we need to do more of in real life.

If you need help, and are a victim of domestic violence in the US, visit http://www.thehotline.org/ or call 1-800-799-SAFE.  
In the UK, http://www.nationaldomesticviolencehelpline.org.uk/ or 0808 2000 247  
Rape, in the US: https://rainn.org/ or 1-800-656-HOPE  
Rape, in the UK: http://www.rapecrisis.org.uk/ or 0808 802 9999  
Depression and/or suicide, in the US: http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ or 1-800-273-TALK  
Depression and/or suicide, in the UK: http://www.samaritans.org/ or 08457 90 90 90  
The Crisis Text Line, for "anyone in crisis at any time" http://www.crisistextline.org/ or text "Start" to 741-741

I'll end with this:  
Thank you, readers, commenters, kudos-ers, bookmarkers, subscribers, and tumblr followers, for reading this. Thank you for engaging in a real conversation about the real effects of sexual assault and abuse. Thank you for sharing your stories with me, and thank you for allowing me to share mine. Thank you for being respectful, and understanding, and kind. Thank you for opening up your arms to me while I pour my heart out. Thank you for surviving everything you've been through. Thank you for trying to continue ploughing through a life that is often confusing at best and darkly painful at worst. Thank you for commiserating with me, and accepting me, and making me feel so much less alone. Thank you for being here.

Thank you all, for everything.

Much love.


End file.
